


The Whipping Boy

by Ook



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Child Abuse, Emma is always practical, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik is a Dick, Fluffier than a goose-down bed., Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I mean everything I write has hurt comfort in it really., Kernezelda is a goddess of the beta, Kid Fic, Poor Charles, Protective Erik, They are all children, Well - Freeform, Whipping, and we are lucky she exists, at least at first, eventually, how could i forget that tag?, like just about all my works, whipping boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:13:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 26,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3344897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ook/pseuds/Ook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik Lehnsherr, 13 year old King, has a quandary on his hands. At least, his guardians do. As an anointed, crowned King, he cannot be struck or beaten, even when he richly deserves it. And he really, really, deserves it. He and his young friends are wild and spoilt to a fault.<br/>Naturally, Lord Regent Shaw decides the best thing to do is to appoint him a whipping boy, to take Erik's punishment in his place; and hopefully persuade the King to behave, well like a King.<br/>Enter ten year old Charles Xavier. Who regards the post as a considerable improvement on the life he's left behind.</p><p>:)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginings

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS NOT A WIP! I know, very astonishing. But the chapters are all complete (the last one is with the beta now) and so this does not count. Updates will be posted quite quickly.  
> Please note that Charles, as a whipping boy, and as a boy with Kurt Marko for a stepfather, comes in for a fair amount of beatings. Nothing is graphically described; but please read with care.  
> Also note that as the action takes place when Erik is 13, and Charles is 10, there will be no pairings. Sorry about that.

The palace is _huge_. Charles had been expecting a grand building, full of history and busy, well-dressed people and servants. But this, this is… more than huge. The Palace (and its gardens, and stables, and orchards, and, and, and…) is closer to being a small town, just by itself.

Charles looks about him, absently noting the entrances and exits and hiding spots, just in case. Then he shakes his head. _I don’t have to do that anymore. They’re not here._ He stands up straight, bracing himself—and has to jump to one side as a flurry of noble children, all older than him, run through the hall and into rooms beyond.

Charles cranes his neck after them, wondering which of them was the King he’s here to, well, serve, he supposes. The tall boy in black, or the shorter one in grey? Definitely not the one with scarlet skin; he knows that much about King Erik, at least.

There’s an astounding and lengthy crash from the room they ran into, followed by yelling and laughter.

Charles straightens up again.

“Ah, Charles, my boy.” Charles tips his head back to look the man in the eye.

“M’lord regent?” He keeps his gaze wide and a little bit awed. Lord Sebastian Shaw seems to appreciate it when he does that. Lord Shaw smiles at him, almost genially.

“Come along. Leave your bag here. I’ll introduce you to her Majesty… and _His_ Majesty, too.”

Charles gulps. The King. His new… master. So to speak.

“Don’t worry,” the Regent says, wheeling round. “We’ll let you get settled in before we start beating you.” He laughs. His teeth are white and sharp in his handsome face. Charles smiles politely. Lord Shaw is a funny person—his moods don’t always match his words, and Charles finds him confusing.

Still, the Regent is better—or easier to deal with—than Kurt, Charles’s stepfather, and Cain, his stepbrother. _Anyone_ is. Maybe even the wild young King Erik. And his friends, and tutors.

The journey here took a week. A whole week of not having to fear Cain’s taunts or Kurt’s attention. Even the worst of Charles’s bruises have mostly healed. Despite the chilly nights, the mud, the jolting carriage and other miseries of travelling cross-Kingdom in autumn, it was the best week Charles has had for _years_.

He stretches his legs and scampers to keep up with the Regent’s swift paces. As they pass through corridors and rooms, people bow, curtsy, step aside and murmur respectfully or resentfully to Lord Shaw. Charles is ignored, mostly, which he prefers. Being noticed only leads to painful things, in his short experience.

“Can I—” He’s nearly breathless, Lord Shaw is moving so fast. “Can I wash my—my hands, and change first, sir?” Charles squints down at his shabby shoes, and bites his lip. He’s still wearing his travelling clothes, serviceable enough, but worn and mud-splashed.

Sebastian Shaw chuckles indulgently, and shakes his head.

“You’re hardly filthy, my boy.” He does not walk any slower. “The Queen and her son are used to the exigencies of road travel.”

“Yes, sir.” Charles swallows down a bubble of frustration and fear. It doesn’t matter. He’s going to be the King’s whipping boy; not his friend or, or anything.

Lord Shaw has already warned him that the young King had tried to avoid having a whipping boy, and was currently sulking over the matter, “As only a thirteen year old boy caught between the pleasures of childhood and the pains of being a ruling monarch can,” Lord Shaw had chuckled. “He’ll come round to you, I’m sure. You look like a clever boy.”

 

 

“Erik!”

“What?” The King of Genosha raised his head cautiously above the table. Azazel and Janos and he had all got away clean from the shattered vase by scattering—he hoped—but he didn’t want to reveal himself to anyone, even Emma, if displeased and irritating adults might spot him. Not that they could really do anything to him, but nagging was tiresome.

“Isn’t today one of the days you give an Audience?”

Erik gave his future wife an unloving look.

Lady Emma rolled her eyes. She was used to Erik’s unloving looks, and, indeed, vastly preferred them to when he attempted to give her loving looks. Anyway, she could glare better than him. She put her hands on her hips.

“Lord Sebastian’s back; my maid says he brought a boy with him.”

“Don’t care.” Erik said sullenly, and dropped back under the table. Emma kicked him. “Ow!”

“I’m not bending down to talk to you in this dress, Erik. Come out of there and talk like a person.”

“I’m the _King_. I don’t get to be a person.” Erik heaved a huge sigh. He was just a puppet, a doll for his people to watch dance, while the real power and all the decisions lay with his Regent, Lord Sebastian Shaw.

“Kings give audiences.” Emma said, unmoved by Erik’s attempts at self-pity. “And boy-kings get out of being punished for boyish misdeeds by having whipping boys. Which _I_ think is just unfair. Especially after that thing with the eggs.”

“The thing with the eggs was Janos’ idea.” Erik sulked. “Az did most of it.”

“Yes, but you were the one who said it was your fault, so he couldn’t be punished for it; and you did that knowing perfectly well that no one can whip the King, even if he is a thirteen year old boy who’s just done that thing with the eggs in front of three Ambassadors.”

Emma paused and drew a deep breath. Erik wriggled further under the table.

“I don’t _want_ a whipping boy!” he snapped. “Everyone knows I hate giving audiences. They shouldn’t be surprised if I’m not there. They all want to talk to the Lord Regent, anyway. He can actually give orders that people _obey_. Like you, but without the telepathy.”

“Erik.”

“I can’t do anything like that yet, not really. And Sebastian is just doing this so I know he’s the boss!” Erik kicked out, and hit the table leg. The table juddered faintly, but the noise wasn’t very satisfactory. “I know he is already!”

“Erik.” Emma shifted from foot to foot.

“WHAT?”

“Is sulking—”

“I AM NOT SULKING!”

“―or whatever hiding under a table in the Little Yellow Parlour is defined as in your mind… is that going to stop you from having to endure a whipping boy for at least the immediate future?”

“I told you, no.” Erik picked at the floorboards. “I tried. You know that what dear Sebastian says goes. I’m just going to have to make him want to leave.”

Emma decided not to touch that not-so-new plan of her lord-to-be. He seemed to like ignoring the fact that for a bit of coin and the chance at a good education, some people would offer up their children for far worse roles than that of whipping boy to the King. If Erik thought the first one would be the only whipping boy to be thrust upon him…

“Is anything, other than you _growing up_ and living ’til you’re twenty-five going to stop the Lord Regent Regenting?”

“Probably not.” Erik admitted, reluctantly. “I just—”

Emma leaned down and hissed.

“Then get out from under the table and go do your audience and you might _live_ ‘til you’re twenty-five. Because if you’re going to be like this for the next twelve minutes, let alone twelve years, I will strangle you.”

“That’s… really not encouraging me to come out, Emma.” Erik said. “Death threats from my loving wife-to-be.” It was very strange to think that he’d have to marry Emma at some point. Not that he objected to marrying her, precisely, but. It was weird. Erik paused to give silent thanks that his eighteenth birthday was five years away. And also that Emma refused to Read his mind very often.

“If I strangle you, I won’t have to marry you,” Emma said brightly. “Come on. I know they’re boring but— You might get to meet the whipping boy’s family, as well, if he’s being presented.”

“I don’t care about his family. They’re letting him come to live here.” Erik edged out from under the table. “I don’t care about him at all. What kind of a person agrees to be beaten for _money_?”

“And an education.” Emma briskly hauled her fiancé upright. “Whipping boys, masochists and whores, mostly.”

Erik sputtered.

“What? You asked. And if you spot his family or see what he’s like in his first time at Court, you can learn about him. Who he is, what kind of a person―” her voice deepened to imitate his― “agrees to be beaten for money.”

“I don’t want to learn about him.” Erik brushed her hands away. “Stop that, I’m not that dusty.”

“Shouldn’t have worn black velvet again.” Emma stepped back, stared at the gangly boy she would one day have to marry, and sighed. “And you don’t have to want to learn about him, it’s just that knowing things about people is helpful if you later decide to interact with them.”

“I don’t—”

“Have a choice about interacting with him? No, you don’t.” Erik gave her another sullen glare. She gave it right back, with a little extra for good measure. “Come on. We won’t be late if you run.”


	2. The Audience.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone meets everyone else and there is much underestimation going on.

Lord Azazel, only son of the Count of the West, nudged Sir Janos, the only living son of Lord Quested He stared at the travel-worn boy kneeling at the Lord Regent’s elbow. The rich setting of Erik’s audience hall only served to underline the shabbiness of his clothes, really. 

“Is that him?” The boy looked young and small, not very impressive. Az was vaguely disappointed. Janos shrugged and frowned. He didn’t actually speak, rarely did; but Az caught his meaning well enough. 

“I know he’s the only kid there who isn’t us; but Erik’s actually here for this audience.” 

Janos looked at Emma, standing quietly by a tall stand of candles. 

“Point,” Az admitted. He winced mentally; Emma standing quiet and demure like that in public increased the likelihood of non-quiet and demure behavior in private by an astounding degree. And he, Azazel, he liked to avoid being beaten with a stuffed toy. Now he was thirteen, it was beneath his dignity. 

“You’d think Lord Shaw would find a tough one, someone who’d fit in with the four of us, no?” he murmured quietly to Janos. “But no, just this tiny waif with his big, blue eyes.” 

“Maybe he thinks Erik will feel sorry for him,” Janos said, soft and hoarse. 

“Erik is too busy feeling sorry for himself to feel sorry for anyone else,” Emma said, suddenly _right by Az’s ear._

“Make some noise when you walk!” 

“A lady’s step is always light; and her smile is always bright,” Emma said, sweetly. “Or so I have been told.” Az winced again. It was going to be stuffed panda time for someone for sure, after the audience was over. 

They looked at Erik, slumped and weary on his throne, the Regent standing at his elbow and murmuring into his ear. Erik looked away, across the room, and smiled when he saw them, clumped together by the wall, watching the ebb and flow of courtiers. 

“His name is Charles,” Emma said, eventually. 

At the door, the herald called the entrance of the Queen Mother. They paused to watch the sudden flows in activity that always caused. 

“Charles what? Has he a Gift?” Azazel cocked his head, curious. “What does your Gift tell us, Madame Reader?” 

“I can’t—I can’t read him very well, but no, no gift.” Emma said, reluctantly. “No one is thinking he has one, anyway.” 

“But we all—” Az started. 

“Isn’t that the point of a whipping boy, that he’s different from the rest of us?” Janos said, diffidently. Emma and Az stared at him for a long moment. He dropped his eyes. 

“You’re talkative this afternoon,” Az said. Janos shrugged and went back to looking at Charles the Whipping Boy, who appeared to be doing his best to greet the Queen and stand up under Erik’s unwelcoming stare. 

“Shouldn’t just stare back; he likes a challenge,” Az said, as if the boy could hear them. Janos sighed, long and low. Then he slipped away from the wall they were all leaning on, and drifted through the crowds towards the throne 

 

“You may rise.” 

Charles gulped, and hastily straightened his knees. Behind him, one courtier said something to another, and then they laughed, low and unkind. Charles refused to twitch. He was reasonably able to bow and shake hands and that sort of thing; he wasn’t as practiced at the kind of court manners he was clearly going to have to need now. 

The boy-King, Erik, for whose minor sins he’d be paying from now on, continued to regard him lazily, as if he might be wondering whether to eat him now, or later. 

“Your Majesty,” Charles said, politely. He wondered if the royal library had a book on etiquette he would be allowed to look at. “I thank you for this welcome to your court.” 

“This is Charles, ward of Lord Marko.” Lord Shaw said to the King, low-voiced, as he leant on the side of the throne. Charles was almost sure that the King was sitting on larger cushions, to make sure the throne didn’t dwarf him. “He’s come to be your whipping boy.” 

Charles wondered why the footstool keeping the king’s feet from dangling in mid-air was covered in engraved metal panels and metal studs. Was it traditional? Nothing else in the décor of the hall seemed to match it. 

“I know why he’s here.” There was the faintest suggestion of gritted teeth in the words. “You, Charles—how old are you?” The words whipped out, and Charles found himself blinking, trying not to stumble over his reply. 

“I’m ten years old, Your Majesty.” And his birthday had been six months ago; and his mother’s death had been a year before that; not that it mattered. He was old enough to be beaten, even if he didn’t look it. 

The King sat up. His grey-green eyes fixed themselves on Charles’s person with doubled intensity. 

“You look younger. Maybe eight or nine.” Was that a sneer? Did he think Charles would succeed in lying to Lord Sebastian Shaw? 

“I’m short for my age. Or so I’m told, Your Majesty.” 

“Humph. Where’s your family?” The king went back to staring at him. Charles stood and let himself be looked at. He hoped he wasn’t sweating too visibly. 

“My parents are dead, Your Majesty. My—guardian—” Charles was never going to call Kurt Marko his stepfather, never. “—relinquished his care of me to the Lord Regent two weeks ago.” 

And had, thereafter, _stopped hitting him_. Charles had no idea how or why Lord Shaw had heard of him, or decided he’d be suitable, but he was very glad of it. Whatever beatings came his way _now_ , life here was going to be better than surviving under Kurt’s heavy thumb. Charles was sure of it. 

The King was still staring at him. 

Well. Charles was _almost_ sure of it.

At the door, the herald called out. 

“Her Grace, Queen-Mother Edie!” Every eye swung away from Charles, for which he was silently grateful, and focused on the comfortably elegant lady approaching the throne. 

“My K—” 

“Mama, please don’t.” The king was half out of his throne, scrambling to—oh, of course—he didn’t want his mother to curtsey to him. Found it cold and alienating. Charles blinked, wondering how he could be so certain, but he looked up at the Queen Mother and was sure it was so. 

“As you wish.” Queen Edie said. “But I’m glad to see you here, my son. Attending to your duties.” 

“Your Majesty.” Lord Shaw bowed to his Queen, precise and controlled in his respect. 

Very quietly, Charles took a step backwards and another to the side. It was clear his time in the spotlight of the court was done; hopefully for a long time— 

“And you must be Charles,” the Queen said. Charles froze. Looked upwards to see her positively _beaming_ down at him. 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Charles bowed. 

“I’m so very pleased to be able to greet you and make you welcome in my son’s court.” She reached out, and puzzled, Charles copied her. 

He had been expecting a hand to kiss, or maybe shake. He had _not_ been expecting her to clasp his hand and bend down to hug him. He froze. Should he move? Hug back? Not hug back? All too soon, the moment was over, and Charles missed it. He opened his mouth, uncertain. 

“It’s all right,” Queen Edie said to him, kind as Charles’ own mother had never known how to be. “You’ll get the hang of everything soon.” 

“I… hope so, Your Majesty.” 

She reached out and flicked some of Charles’s unruly hair away from his eyes. He was distantly proud he managed not to flinch. 

“And I’m very, ah, thankful, that you’re here. My son—” Her eyes danced wickedly towards the irritated boy-King— “needs all the friends—all the help—he can get.” 

“Hey!” the king protested. “Mama..!” 

Charles startled himself by laughing. He cut it off as soon as he realized, and only barely managed to stop himself clapping a hand over his mouth. 

The Queen’s eyes turned thoughtful, and Charles frantically tried to work out what he’d done wrong. Should he apologize, and show that he’d noticed his own mistake and wouldn’t make it again, or should he not apologize in the hope no-one had noticed he’d apparently distressed the Queen by laughing at her son? 

“I—” he started to say, but the Queen was looking beyond him. 

“Ah,” she said, and she was pleased again, so Charles breathed out a silent sigh of relief. “Sir Janos.” The boy who’d appeared bowed to her. “Assuming you both have the King’s permission to withdraw…” She caught Erik’s eye pointedly, and he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Would you take Charles and show him to Erik’s rooms?” 

The boy nodded silently. 

“You’ll be sleeping there, and so on,” Edie explained to Charles’s bewilderment. 

“Oh. Yes, Your Majesty.” Charles hastily tacked her title on. 

“I—we thought it seemed only fair; seeing as you’re sharing his pains, you should at least have a taste of his privileges,” Queen Edie said, very gently. “Go on with you now.” She gave Charles a little push, urging him towards Sir Janos. 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Charles said, obediently.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles' first day as Erik's whipping boy. Poor Charles.

Bright autumn sun poured through the windows, lighting the dark-paneled room beyond. A bird called, loudly enough it might have been sitting on one of the windowsills, and was answered by one further away.

Charles shifted on the hard bench, wondering if he should have found a cushion. Dr Essex, the royal tutor, a learned man of some repute in his own right, looked increasingly annoyed. That could not bode well for Charles, given that the source of the royal tutor’s ire could only be the King.

Not that Charles could blame him. The sun-bright, orderly schoolroom was in the same area of the palace as the royal apartments, yet Erik was nowhere to be seen, this, Charles’s first morning. And he’d been here long enough for Lady Emma to arrive, and Sir Janos. Lord Azazel was also absent.

“Young Charles,” Dr Essex said, an unnerving smile on his thin lips. “To fill in the time while we ‘tend on our sovereign’s leisure; I’d like to run some tests.” He placed a slate in front of Charles, and placed the chalk next to it, with a faint, deliberate click.

“Tests, sir?” Charles was obscurely glad Dr Essex had not handed them to him directly. He didn’t want the tutor to get so close to him.

“To see where you need to start,” Dr Essex said, with heavy patience. “I don’t know what learning you’ve managed to obtain so far—”

“Oh! Yes, sir.” 

“I imagine it will be a little less than the others in this classroom.” Dr Essex seemed to be trying to sound kindly. “But I’m sure I can help you develop fast.”

Charles flushed, and ducked his head. Lady Emma leaned forwards and said something to Sir Janos. He nodded, never taking his eyes from Dr Essex’s face.

Charles gnawed at his lip. He probably _was_ less educated than the other four; given they’d had access to the royal libraries since birth, and had never had to deal with their books being stolen, or burnt, or used to hit them. Also they’d had a tutor, whereas once Charles’s nursemaid had taught him to read, he’d had to fend for himself, mostly.

Still, his father had been interested in many things, and the remnants of his library had proved wonderful to a much-younger Charles, as well as doubling up as a refuge from his step-family, from time to time. And learning was a good defense against some of the world’s cruelties. Charles picked up the slate.

“Where shall I start, sir?”

“Start with the alphabet,” Dr Essex said, imperturbably. He glanced at his other charges. “Sir Janos, continue to translate the chapter of T’challa’s Second treatise on Wakanda, if you please. Lady Emma, the second mathematical problem in chapter five of Forge’s on Engineering is your challenge this morning.”

“Yes sir,” Lady Emma said. Sir Janos silently pulled his books out from under his bench.

 _Start with the alphabet?!_ Charles flushed again.

“I _can_ read and write, sir.” He tried to keep his voice polite, respectful. Dr Essex raised an eyebrow.

“Then doubtless you will not mind being asked to prove it. Alphabet. Now.”

Charles set his teeth and began writing out the alphabet. In his best handwriting.

 

  
They had progressed from the slate and the alphabet to paper and a metal-nibbed wooden pen that had to be dipped very carefully indeed to prevent ink-blots ruining the page, and Dr Essex had twice patted Charles uncomfortably on the shoulder with one gloved hand, before Lord Azazel and King Erik finally walked in.

Charles stood, as did the other two children. Dr Essex dipped his head. The King turned red and waved them back down hastily.

“Your Majesty,” Dr Essex said. “I note that, as ever, punctuality appears to be the politeness of princes and not of Kings.”

“I’m sorry I’m late, sir,” the king said, almost tonelessly. “I got distracted.” He slid onto a bench and Lord Azazel followed him. 

“So I note,” Dr Essex said. He turned back to Charles. “Come with me.”

Very carefully, Charles laid down his pen, and slid out from his bench.

“Charles, one of your duties from now on will be preventing the King from becoming… distracted.” Dr Essex reached into the drawer of his desk, and produced a leather strap. Charles swallowed. “Hands on my desk, and bend over, please.”

Charles laid his hands on the polished old wood, and set his teeth. He kept his head bent, hiding his face from his audience.

“Your Majesty, please attend,” Dr Essex said, raising the belt. Charles screwed his eyes shut. “Lateness is not something can be continually excused in this classroom. This will happen every time you are late, from today forward.”

The strap came down across Charles’s backside with a bruising, burning force that threw him forwards and made Charles’ palms slip and squeak across the desk top. The loud, cracking noise that went with it seemed to fill the whole classroom. The pain was sudden, and shocking, and intense. 

Charles braced himself, but Dr Essex seemed to be making a point, rather than administering a full punishment, because no further blow came.

“Return to your seat, Charles.” 

Blinking furiously, Charles sat down again. He could feel the hard bench pressing against the suddenly tender stripe, and tried not to flinch. _Definitely a cushion tomorrow_. He picked up his pen and raised his head. All four of them were staring at him. The King’s mouth had dropped open. 

Charles hunched one shoulder and turned back to his translation. 

One of the footmen and two of the house maids back ho—from before had been from Wakanda. They’d obligingly given in to his requests and taught him enough of their language that he’d been able to puzzle out most of the Wakandan books his farther had, but this book hadn’t been one of them. T’challa was _interesting_.

“Your Majesty,” Dr Essex said, a little later. “Have you read the book on the ethics of ruling, as I requested?”

There was a pause.

“Some of it,” Erik muttered. “It’s boring.” Dr Essex sighed.

“Charles.” He beckoned.

Resigned, Charles walked up to the tutor’s desk and bent over again. 

“But—” the King said, and the belt was coming down. Charles gasped, but he didn’t make a louder noise. He drew himself together. He was _not_ going to cry in front of, of the King and his stupid friends on the first day. He _wasn’t._

“But—” the King said, again. “That’s—Essex, you set that for me before Ch—my whipping boy arrived sir, it’s not—” The belt came down again, surprisingly fast.

“Insolence,” Dr Essex said, breathing a little faster. “Will also be punished.” Charles glanced up in time to see the Lady Emma kick the king’s ankle, sharply. “Charles, go back to your seat.”

Charles went back to his seat.

The morning lessons went on. Charles was strapped twice more for the King’s educational errors, before Dr Essex picked up Charles’s translation and began to scan it.

“Hmm,” Dr Essex said, finally. “Charles; this is an impressive start from one with your… background.” 

Charles kept his face blank. Dr Essex laid the paper down on his desk, and reached into a drawer again. 

“However, your handwriting needs improvement, there are a number of ink blotches, and you have also made several basic grammatical errors, which I will annotate shortly.” He straightened up, and Charles could see that he was now holding a short cane. “In the meantime, are you right- or left-handed?” Charles fought down his flinches.

“What!?” The low mutter was Erik, Charles was sure of it. Lord Azazel’s accent was distinctive; and Sir Janos hardly spoke at all.

“Right-handed, sir.” Charles was proud that his voice came out as even-sounding as Dr Essesx’s. 

“Then stretch your left out, boy. Palm upwards.” Dr Essex sounded irritated.

Helpless, Charles did so. The switch bit into his hand with such viciousness, he was pleased he’d remembered to keep his thumb out of the way. A glaring red weal rose across his palm almost immediatly. Charles let out a breath and resisted the urge to shake his hand or hold it close to him. It didn’t help.

“Your hands are for your errors,” Dr Essex said, and Charles nodded, unable to speak. “Your behind is for the King’s.” He smiled, thinly amused. Charles bowed his head.

“Sir,” Lady Emma said, softly. “It’s nearly noon.” He glared fiercely at her. “May we be excused for lunch?”

There was a short silence.

“Go,” Dr Essex said, finally. “If the King grants leave—”

“Please,” Erik hastily assented. Dr Essex looked down at them from his superior, adult height for a long, quiet moment, before sweeping out.

Sir Janos rose and almost bolted from the room. Lord Azazel and the King moved to follow him. Charles concentrated on finishing his last sentence neatly, set his pen aside, and stood up. 

“You didn’t make a sound,” Lady Emma said, right by his elbow. Charles jumped. Lady Emma made a quick grab for the ink pot set rocking by his hasty move.

“Thank you, m’lady.” Walking… walking was harder, with five belt marks across his back and bottom. But he was used to it. Dr Essex hadn’t used his fists, and that had to count for something, Charles supposed.

“Call me Emma.”

“Thank you, Lady Emma,” Charles said, carefully. He felt very tired. “Ah; where is—do you know where I should—”

“Lunch for the King and his friends is usually in the Blue Chamber in autumn,” Lady Emma said. Charles raised his head and looked her in the eye.

“And where should I go, for lunch, please?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *coughs*  
> Now, I don't want to be passive aggressive or demanding or pathetic; but I would really like to get a comment or two on this work. Seriously, people, please? Just one comment on how you feel about the story so far? For me? Please? I'll throw in an epilogue with a few pairings!  
> *hopeful look*


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik attempts to be a little shit, and Swordmaster Logan meets the reason why.
> 
> :)

Swordmaster Logan leaned against the closed door of the weapons salle, and considered lighting one of his precious, imported cigarillos. He might not have the time to smoke it all the way through, as the Three Brats—the King and his two best friends—were usually at the salon on time for their lessons.

Lady Emma, now—she took her lessons from Logan privately, with only her maid in attendance. She didn’t train every day, unlike the boys, but Logan was pleased that the essential viciousness of her nature kept her skills with knife and sword and shield expanding almost as rapidly.

Sometimes, especially on a clear, autumn afternoon like this one, a man just needed a smoke. There was no one in the Salle, and no one in the outside practice ring, either. If not now, when?

Logan pulled out the cigarillo.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Biting back a curse, Logan turned to look at the interrupting idiot. A kid, short, scrawny, dressed in the blue-grey livery of the House of Lehnsherr. Probably a page, then, with a message or a job for him. Great.

“Yeah?” He did his best to sound unwelcoming. This was not hard.

“I—” the kid faltered. “Is this where the—the King and his companions have their training in arms, Sir?”

“Yeah. Don’t call me sir. What’s it to you, kid?”

“I—I’m supposed—I think, sir—I’m supposed to attend on him?”

“You think?” Logan rolled his eyes. “They letting him have a valet, then? You’re kind of young for it.” He was not too young to be a squire; but that would have been _Logan’s_ call, and young Erik was not ready for that, no way.

“Whipping boy,” the kid said quietly, not looking at Logan. “I’m his new whipping boy, sir.”

Well, shit.

“I said, don’t call me sir. M’name’s Logan.” The boy blinked, and nodded.

“What’s your name?”

“Charles, s—My name is Charles.” He gave slightly jerky little bow, which Logan didn’t find adorable.

“Am I right in thinkin’ you have to be at all his lessons, and such?” Charles nodded. Logan raised an eyebrow at him. “S’lunchtime. Why ain’t you with him right now, bub?”

“The King is at lunch with his chosen companions, and didn’t want to be disturbed by the—by me.” Charles said it quietly and calmly and almost emotionlessly.

“Erik say that?” Sounded like something Erik would say in his little-shit moods. Charles nodded.

“Lady Emma asked me to accompany her, but—”

“Man, the King is such a little prick at times,” Logan muttered. Charles gaped at him, and Logan let out a long, rolling laugh. “Call ‘em like you see ‘em kid; saves time.”

“Yes, s—” Logan held up a finger. “Logan!” Charles said, quickly. Too quickly for Logan’s taste. A fleeting thought slid though his mind. _Wonder where Shaw found him?_ He shook his head. That, he could find out later.

“I’m not a whipping man, Chuck. Don’t worry about it.”

Charles nodded, uncertainly.

“You get any lunch before the Brat King threw you out?”

He shook his head. Logan frowned, and straightened up. He noticed how the kid took a wary step back and added another query to his mental list.

“C’mon, then. Guess it’s on me.”

The boy followed Logan docilely enough through the arms salle and into the room beyond. Logan poked though the scraps of practice armour being repaired, the knives and books and occasional dirty cup, to pull out bread and cheese from his foodsafe.

“Eat that.” He pushed a generous platter of bread and cheese towards the boy. “Tip something off a seat and sit, if you’ve a mind.”

Logan watched the boy as he ate, casually concealing his study. He was wary, small, and maybe a bit scrawny, but he had the potential for being a tough, scrappy fighter—if he was trained carefully, by someone who knew what they were doing.

Like Logan, for instance.

“Had any arms training yet, kid? Sword? Knives?”

Charles shook his head, looking worried.

“Well then.” Logan smirked. “You can start after lunch, with me.”

Charles looked more worried.

“I—I don’t know if I’m allowed—swords are expensive and—”

“Practice swords are wooden,” Logan said. “You just let me worry about all that, kid.” The Swordmaster smirked some more. “Eat your food, and come on through to the salle when you’re done.”

 

“I don’t understand why we all have to be late to Logan’s training, my liege,” Az grumbled as they scurried along. Erik looked back over his shoulder with a half-hearted glare. Janos cocked his head, echoing Az’s question.

“Because I don’t want a whipping boy,” he snapped. “Now come on, both of you, before they notice the cake’s gone missing.”

“And being late stops you from having a whipping boy, how, precisely?” Az dug in his heels. Janos rocked to a stop next to him.

“Look,” Erik said between his teeth. “Essex already strapped him _five_ times today; and caned him, we only have to do this for a little bit and he’ll break.”

“Essex will break if we’re late to arms practice?” Az asked, curious.

“No!” Erik snapped. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. “The boy—Charles, he won’t—no one would put up with that for long.”

“Being beaten?” Janos spoke softly, but clearly, and his eyes were hard.

“Exactly. He must miss his, his home, his—guardians.” Erik rocked back on his heels. “It’s—even if it isn’t hurting him much, he’ll—”

“How do you know Essex wasn’t hurting him?” Az broke in. “It certainly looked like he was hitting hard.” Erik dismissed the query with an impatient wave of his hand.

“He didn’t even say ouch, let alone cry or anything.” Erik shrugged. “It can’t have hurt very much, can it? But—if we keep this up—”

“We?” Janos echoed him.

“Alright, fine, if I keep this up—he’ll snap, get homesick, ask to leave.” Erik said it confidently. “Soon,” he added, less certainly.

“You think Lord Shaw will listen to this boy, this Charles, when he asks to go home?”

“He listens to _me_. Sometimes,” Erik said, defiantly.

“Erik.” Az sighed, laying his hands on Erik’s shoulders. “You’re the King.” Erik shrugged, twisting away from one of his oldest friends.

“So?”

Az opened his mouth to speak. Janos caught his sleeve, and shook his head. Az closed his mouth and threw up his hands.

“Fine. Fine. As you will, Your Majesty.”

They hurried along to the open air practice ring next to the salle, eagerly, only to stop short at the sight of the people already there.

The squat, hairy figure of the swordmaster putting some poor soul through their paces was a familiar sight. But the short, slighter figure practicing basic footwork and sword thrusts under his patient guidance was less so, even if they all knew him by sight.

“He’s _training_ him?” Erik sounded hurt. He raised his voice. “Sorry we’re late, Swordmaster.”

Charles looked up and froze, before bowing jerkily.

“Your Majesty.” Logan turned, touched his forelock in perfunctory respect, and grinned. “Gentlemen. Good to see you’ve finally turned up. Get into your practice gear.”

“Uh—”

“ _Now,_ ” Logan said, curtly. “You’re already missing part of your lesson—how much more do you want to go for? I don’t wait for slackers, or late birds.”

They went.

“He’ll punish him once we’re back out,” Erik muttered as he fumbled through lacing up the padding to protect his legs. Janos shook his head. “You’ll see,” Erik insisted as they left the salle, practice helmet hanging from one hand.

“Finally,” Logan said as the three approached the practice ring. “Right. Laps, all of you, four times round the ring. Carry your gear.”

“ _Laps_?!” Erik sputtered.

Logan grinned, toothily.

“You were late. Reckon you might need to learn how to move faster.”

“What about him?” Erik pointed at Charles. Charles looked at the floor. Logan rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Erik gritted his teeth. “My whipping boy—” he started, but got no further.

“He might be your whipping boy, he ain’t your running boy.” Logan grinned, sharp and determined. Erik’s eyes flashed.

“Isn’t he supposed to share my punishments? He swore—”

“And _I_ swear, Your Majesty, you do not want to try and make _me_ a whipping man,” Logan growled, low and angry. “Latecomers run laps; people who turn up on time get more arms training. You want training? You’ll run laps. _Move!_ ”

“This—was—a bad—idea,” Az gasped out on their second lap. “I hate—running.”

“I don’t—think he’d let—you teleport,” Erik wheezed back. Janos said nothing, simply dropping his head down and running steadily.

In the ring, Charles was still steadfastly practicing the basic moves Logan had shown him.

“Don’t worry, kid,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth. “He’s a little shit, our King, but he’ll come round to you.”

“How—two, three—can you be sure—five, six?” Charles kept his eyes on Logan as he went through another move. “He—nine, ten—doesn’t have to—thirteen, fourteen— _like_ me.”

“He will, though,” Logan said. “Trust your wise ol’ Uncle Logan.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles has a bad few days. Poor Charles. He makes another friend, though. Two, in fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this chapter marks the end of the worst of the hurt and the beginning of the comfort for our poor whipping boy. It should go up on Friday, according to my schedule, but I will not be able to post tomorrow, so, lucky souls, you get it a day early. Enjoy!

The second day of Charles’s life as Erik’s whipping boy, Dr Essex caned him twice for his own errors, and strapped him four times for the King’s. One of which was lateness, but Erik had been less late than his first day, so Charles allowed himself to hope.

Early afternoon wasn’t arms practice; it was courtly etiquette and serving. Here things could also have been better, as Erik was mostly learning how to be served graciously; and the tutor, a stern unamused noblewoman called Lady Moira, treated Charles exactly like the other boys learning to be pages. They all had to carry food, pour wine, and eat just so. Charles enjoyed almost all of it.

Except for the part where Erik tripped him as he was pouring wine.

Lady Moira gave Erik a very unimpressed look, which made him scowl. Charles might have appreciated that, but Lady Moira also gave Charles a ringing slap round the head which made him dizzy. Charles gritted his teeth and carried on. He had a strong feeling Erik didn’t want him there—had had it before sleeping in Erik’s chambers, when Erik had actually told him so.

The King had protested to anyone who would listen—specifically the chambermaid, and the Lord Regent—that Charles should sleep on the floor, across the doorway, like a loyal servant. The Lord Regent hadn’t even blinked before refusing Erik. The chamber maid had simply pulled out a sleeping pallet and made it up by the fire, shooing away Charles when he tried to help.

Which was nice, and the bed was warm, if not that soft or comfortable. But Erik had hissed at him in the night, in the dark, full of angry words and feelings.

“You should go home,” he’d said. And "I want you to go. I never wanted a whipping boy.”

“Your Majesty—”

“And you don’t get to talk to me,” the king had concluded, turning over in a huff, and pulling his blankets over his head.

Charles had spent the night alternately wide-eyed, waiting tensely for Erik to get out of bed to come over to hit him, or worse, as Cain would have done, and battling vague monsters in a series of confusing dreams. He’d been glad to scurry out of bed and away from the King’s Chambers early in the morning before the lump in the big bed turned back into a sullen, angry king.

The third day’s lessons started out well enough, with Erik actually being on time, and making very few mistakes in the lesson—one strapping for bad mathematics only—but Charles’s handwriting had begun to suffer from the caning, and possibly the lack of sleep. Spelling and handwriting errors got him three more blows of the cane. It was very difficult not to cry; but Charles managed.

He preferred the caning to the strapping, anyway. Dr Essex seemed to be further away, when he used the cane, and his—enjoyment, there was no other word for it—didn’t fill the room so much. But by the time he came to Swordmaster Logan’s next session, Charles was unable to grip the practice blades properly.

Logan had grunted, glared at Erik and his friends, and sent Charles off to find a Dr McCoy for salve and padding. Dr McCoy had been a good person to get to know, with his salves and potions. And his huge dog, Beast. Beast was blue. This was not, as far as Charles knew, a normal colour for a dog, but Hank didn’t seem to care, and neither did Beast.

The fourth and fifth days were very similar: Erik made mistakes, or disobeyed, and Dr Essex punished Charles for it with increasing enjoyment. Charles ate in the kitchens, or in corners. At night, the King refused to admit he could hear or see Charles at all.

The sixth day was different. On the sixth day, the Lord Regent found out about Erik stealing cake, and Charles was beaten for it by him.

“Partially this is Erik’s punishment, and partly this is to punish you, my boy, for not stopping or reporting it,” the Lord Regent said, smiling, after the King and his friends had left. “If you’d told me what you knew sooner, at least some of this could have been avoided. Do thnk about that, won’t you?”

Charles said nothing, slipping out of the chamber to hide in the smaller Royal Library for as long as he could.

 

“I’ve got a plan.” Erik dropped into the window seat next to Az. Az shot his sovereign king and liege lord a wary look. The young King was bubbling over with excited glee.

“A plan?” Az tapped on the window pane with one long, scarlet fingernail.

“Come on, it’s only a small thing.” Erik grinned. “We just have to steal the ambassadors’ handkerchiefs, and mix them up. Can you imagine their faces?”

“No, Erik,” Azazel said, quiet and serious. “No.” A spatter of rain dashed itself across the small leaded panes.

“We won’t get caught!” Erik snapped. He looked away. “They’ll blame it on the wash. And if we do, nothing serious is going to happen. Not to us.”

“Not to us, no.” Az said. “I was in the room this morning when the Lord Regent punished Charles for the cake stealing. That was worse than Dr Essex on spelling mistakes or lateness; and you know it. He used his _riding crop_ ”

“Charles didn’t cry at all.” Erik wrapped his arms around his knees, elaborately casual. “I really do think it just doesn’t hurt him as much.” He looked out over the windswept gardens. “And we can’t do much else, not with this weather.”

The whipping boy had not cried or yelled, but Az had been close enough to see the way his face scrunched up in pain at every blow; close enough to see the freckled fists clench into white-knuckled tightness with every crack of the Lord Regent’s riding crop. He didn’t want to see it again.

“I don’t care,” Az said, sharply. “I’m not going to get someone else hurt if I can help it.” He hunched one shoulder and flattened his palm against the glass. “Not again.”

Erik stared at him, betrayed.

“But—”

“If you’re going to hurt someone you ought to do it directly.” Az coolly turned his head to look Erik straight in the eye. “And if we get caught, this is going to get Charles hurt again, and you know it.”

“I don’t want to hurt him it’s a, a means to an end!” Erik flushed and sputtered. “It’s Sebastian’s fault for sticking me with him in the first place!”

“As a means to an end?” Az cocked an unsympathetic eyebrow. “Oh, right, that means you get your servants to hurt someone for you, and keep your own hands clean. I see. Very kingly.”

“That’s not— That’s not what I’m doing!” Erik protested. He jumped up and started to stamp away. “It’s not the same thing at all!” he yelled over his shoulder.

Az sighed.

“Janos is right. It is, indeed, time to speak to Lady Emma.”

 

“Hello again, Charles.” Dr McCoy looked up from his desk and smiled eagerly at his potential new pupil. “Have you come for a lesson in herbs?”

“Uh, kind of.” Charles hovered at the doorway. “It’s—I.” he scuffed at the floor with the toe of his new shoes, blue grey like the rest of his livery, and then stopped. Would they hit him if he damaged the leather?

“Come in, anyway, and say hello.” Dr McCoy’s voice was very gentle. “Beast has been missing you.”

Charles sidled in, edging his way around the bookcase-lined room, to Beast’s side. The dog beat his tail on the floor in greeting, and panted into Charles’s face.

“H-hello, Beast,” Charles said, quietly. He put out a hand, and the dog lathered it enthusiastically.

“Do your bandages need changing?” Dr McCoy had turned back to his papers, Charles saw when he looked up. “Do you have enough bruise salve?” 

The doctor wasn’t looking at Charles at all. That made it easier. Dr McCoy was very clever, like Dr Essex, but he was kinder. _Probably because he doesn’t have to teach the King,_ Charles thought, fleetingly.

“It’s—I can’t get my shirt off.” Charles told the dog. Beast seemed unconcerned, merely exchanging licking Charles’s hand for licking his face.

“What?” Dr McCoy did seem concerned, unfortunately.

“I, the Lord Regent, he—um—it’s sticking to me. I think he—he broke the skin.”

Suddenly, Dr McCoy was not sitting at his desk polishing his spectacles, he was all the way across the room and kneeling at Charles’s side. Charles flinched away before he could stop himself and remember who was so close to him.

“I’m sorry, Charles,” Dr McCoy said. “I won’t... I won’t ever hit you.”

“No, sir,” Charles said, softly. He put out a hand and petted Beast’s fur. Beast panted at him in encouragement.

“May I look?” Dr McCoy asked, very gently. Charles nodded.

Dr McCoy lifted Charles’s shirt a little, stopping as soon at the shirt began to tug at the wounds beneath. Charles hid his bandaged hands in Beast’s luxurious blue fur, so their shaking couldn’t be seen. He wasn’t going to cry. He didn’t cry. Crying never solved anything.

“I’m going to have to soak this off you; would you mind lying on the couch for a little bit, with Beast?”

“Now?” Charles stood, carefully.

“Yes, please.” Dr McCoy snapped his fingers, and Beast surged to his feet. The doctor pointed, and Beast scrambled for the long couch.

Charles sat on the couch carefully. Beast curled himself around and gave a huge, shuddering sigh.

Dr McCoy handed him some medicine. Charles tilted his face up, looking an enquiry he didn’t quite have the courage to ask.

“It’s a tisane, against pain. Can you drink that and lie face down, please, Charles?” Dr McCoy instructed, quietly. Charles gulped down the tisane and lay down without a word. Beast snuffled at his hair and licked his ear.

“This might sting a little.” Something cool and wet began to soak Charles’s shirt. It did sting, but either the tisane or whatever the doctor was doing to Charles’s back stopped some of the hurting there.

“Th-Thank you.” Charles buried his face in Beasts’ side. He tried not to cling to the dog. It was hard. Beast was almost as large as he was, and warm, and the closest Charles had been to affection in so very long.

“Once we get this shirt off you, we’ll need to let the weals breathe, before I put any dressings on. I might need- some of these go below your trousers.”

Charles thought he nodded. Dr McCoy kept talking; telling Charles what he was doing and explain some of the herbs he was using, but he didn’t ask any questions; so Charles thought it was probably safe not to listen very hard… 

“Charles? Charles?”

“Mmm?” He wasn’t asleep, precisely—Charles could hear everything that was going on around him, and feel it, too, but he was—he was tired.

“I’m going to put a blanket over your legs.”

“Mmm.” Charles was warm, Dr McCoy’s room was safe and quiet. Beast was there, idly licking at Charles’s arm. It was so nice just to be able to … let go, just a little, and drift.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the King is visited by enlightenment. 
> 
> Thanks, Emma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally Erik gets that boot to the head!
> 
> Contains a description of Charles' back, for those who don't want to read such things unwarned.

The country reports section of the Small Library was a good place to plan in. No one would find him here, sat on the floor by _Grain Harvests of the North, Vol. 24-40_ or look for him here, either. It’s a good place for Erik to consider how to carry his plans forwards with suddenly depleted forces, now that Azazel has inexplicably backed out.

He’ll have to regroup and strategize before going forwards, Erik thought. He is a King; he’s not going to give up now. One day he’d be commanding armies, if war ever came to his kingdom. He had to be ready. Had to be able to plan and think tactically.

“Sulking again, Erik?”

So maybe only _one_ person could find him. At least he could expect a certain stony, dignified loyalty from Lady Emma Frost.

“My lady.” Erik cautiously uncurled from his hunched seat by the cereal reports. “How may I—ow!”

Emma leaned forwards, seized her husband-to-be’s left ear and _yanked._

Erik stumbled upright, yelping.

“Erik Magnus Lehnsherr, fourth of your Name, you come with me _right now._ ”

“Ow, Emma, what—what are you—ow!” Erik bent hastily forwards to reduce the pull on his ear. Emma stepped briskly, forcing Erik to stumble after her or lose the maltreated appendage.

“Come on!” Snorting like an enraged dragon, Emma towed Erik out of the library and along the hall.

“Ow—hey, Emma, tell me where we’re going, and I’ll walk there-!” Erik grabbed at his bride-to-be’s wrist, but could not force her to release her grip.

Emma did not let go, or let up, for several minutes. Nor did she speak. She marched forwards, and Erik, perforce, followed her. Passing servants and courtiers saw; but none of them intervened, or, mercifully, laughed aloud. This was good of them, Erik thought, jerkily. It meant he wouldn’t have to, to fire or exile anyone for seeing this.

Finally, they reached a deserted corner of the corridor. Emma let go of Erik’s ear and put her hands on her hips.

“Do you know what you’ve been doing?” She tilted her head to one side as the silence stretched.

“Emma, what _has_ got into you? I haven’t done anything!” Erik glowered. Emma glowered back, unafraid.

“Perhaps not to me. But come and see what you have done—and be quiet. Or I’ll get the panda down, see if I don’t!” She turned on her heel and marched off.

Sullenly, Erik followed her.

Emma had used her stuffed panda to impart discipline—or her displeasure—on her playfellows since they had all been very small. Being hit over the head with a stuffed toy by his five-year-old fiancée was one of Erik’s earliest memories of Emma. It had not gotten any softer as they grew up; and even Azazel maintained a healthy respect for it—and Emma.

Everyone did; unless they, too, wanted to be sentenced to battery by stuffed panda. Or worse, Emma’s tongue.

Cautiously, Emma pushed the door open.

Erik recognized where he was as he went through—this was one of the lesser doctors’ rooms—McKay, McCoy, something like that. He was supposed to be a very clever man; the Crown was his patron and funded his research into… something.

In return, he treated servants and the courtiers who were too poor or stingy to either employ their own doctor or pay for the Royal Physician’s time. But what would Emma have to show him here, that would make her so angry?

McCoy met them near the door. Emma dropped him a tiny, dignified curtsy, and he smiled. The smile slid off his face as he nodded to his King.

“Keep your voices down, please—Charles is sleeping,” the doctor said, soft and firm. He gave Erik a long, steady look. Erik blinked. He felt strangely judged and found wanting.

“Look.” Emma hissed in his ear. “Look what you did.”

Biting back his defenses—he hadn’t hit Charles _himself_ ; it wasn’t his fault he had a whipping boy—anyway, Charles was tough—Erik looked.

Charles. Lying curled on a couch, face buried in the flank of a huge blue dog. Shirtless. Apparently asleep, or something very close to it. In any case, he didn’t move and his breathing did not change as Erik and Emma moved further into the room.

Charles’ back was covered in welts and bruises of different hues and ages.

Erik’s throat clicked as he swallowed down the huge bubble of guilt that suddenly churned in his gut. He didn’t say anything.

Dr McCoy moved to Charles’s side. Quietly, he flipped the blanket part covering the sleeping whipping boy, raising it just enough for Erik to see the bruises extended all down Charles’s legs as well. With infinite gentleness he pulled the blanket up over Charles’s skinny shoulders.

“There will be more scarring, I think, but nothing that will cause any lasting disabilities, as long as Dr Essex stays away from his hands, in future.” Then he looked at Erik, and Erik had never felt less like a King—like a person—in his life. He felt small, and horrible, and hateful. He opened his mouth, and Dr McCoy shook his head.

“Don’t say anything.” Erik felt even more stricken; but the doctor was right, what _could_ he say? Nothing. “He needs his rest, and better feeding.”

Erik closed his mouth, and let Dr McCoy herd him to the door, Emma close on his heels.

“Th-thank you, Dr McCoy.” The king faltered. Dr McCoy raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m sure.” The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose. “Try not to get him assaulted again in the near future, would you? At least let this batch heal up before you play the fool again, hmm?”

Erik nodded dumbly, and fled. Emma smiled at Dr McCoy, and followed on the track of her errant King.

Emma found her King and future husband hiding out by the grain harvest reports again, arms around his knees, staring at nothing.

“Well?” Emma put her hands back on her hips. It was a posture that had served her well. Erik looked up at her with stricken, red-rimmed eyes.

“I’m horrible,” he told her, solemnly.

“This we knew.” Emma dusted her hands together. “So—”

“I—I’m a monster.” Erik said it to his knees. _Not fit to be King,_ he thought, quietly.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Emma said briskly, and sat down next to him. “But are you ready to stop all this, yet?”

“Yes.” Quietly. Erik was perfectly sure his father, if he’d been alive, would have been completely disappointed with him.

“If your father was alive, you’d never have got into this mess.” Emma pointed out, reading him casually. “Kings have whipping boys, here, princes don’t.”

She didn’t often do that, Erik thought, with dull surprise.

“No, well, you’re not normally _this_ much of a stubborn fool.” Emma sounded slightly more sympathetic. “And when you are, it’s usually just hurt you.”

The image of Charles’s injured back flashed behind Erik’s eyes again. His fingers dug into his knees. He’d done that. He’d _intended_ for that to happen, to Charles, and done his best to make sure it kept happening.

Emma sighed. Put her arm around him, and hugged him. Erik stayed very still. He didn’t deserve comfort, not when—

“And stop that, too,” Emma said, although her arm didn’t leave him. “Before you disappear in a complete _cloud_ of how awful you are, I want you to answer me some questions.”

“All right.” Erik was definitely not leaning towards her.

“Do you know what you did wrong?” Emma looked at him, quiet now, neither blame nor forgiveness in her face or voice.

“I got him hurt.” Erik said, shortly. “I’m—I’m supposed to protect people, to want to—”

“Yes, and?”

“On purpose?” Erik tried again. “I let—”

“You picked the weakest person—”

“Charles isn’t weak!” Erik protested automatically. No one who could collect such bruises without crying once could possibly be weak.

“Most vulnerable person, then,” Emma said, calmly. “In fighting with everyone else about having something you didn’t want—a whipping boy—he was the most vulnerable, and you picked him to punish because you were having to put up with something and didn’t want to.”

Erik sagged down further.

“And you had to know it wouldn’t _work_ ,” Emma continued, pitilessly.

“What?” Erik looked indignant, briefly. “I had a plan!”

“Erik.”

He flashed her a weak grin. “Hey. It hinged on my ability to get in into trouble, it—”

“Erik,” Emma said, patient. “You might have got rid of Charles eventually, but I’m pretty sure the Lord Regent would just have found another one.”

“Oh,” Erik said glumly. He hadn’t thought about that.

“Anyway.” Emma spoke more briskly. “Entertaining as it is watching you realize you made a mistake that’s hurt someone you like—

“What?”

Emma waved his puzzlement away. “What are you going to _do_ about, it, Erik?” she prodded.

“Stop getting into trouble,” Erik said, reluctantly. “Be good.”

“It’s a start. And?”

“Study harder?” he offered uncertainly. “So he doesn’t have to pay for my spelling mistakes?”

“Good. And?”

“I don’t know, what, Emma?”

“Consider apologizing to him,” Emma told him, dryly.

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Erik nodded to himself. “Tonight. Before bed.” Definitely. He would apologize to Charles privately, before they both went to sleep. It would be embarrassing, but he was sure he could do it.

How hard could saying sorry be?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles wakes up, Emma takes him to meet new people, and inspiration strikes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting better. Slowly.

“—I’ll do what I can, sir.”

“Thank you, Lady Emma.”

The voices woke Charles with a jump. Beast nosed at his hair in curiosity at his sudden movement. Charles rubbed his eyes and wriggled to sit up. Stabs of pain from his bandaged back reminded him that moving slowly was a good idea.

“Ah, Charles. Awake again?” Dr McCoy observed, brightly.

“I—I’m sorry, I don’t mean to fall asl—” Charles hastily wrapped the blanket—where had that come from?—around him as he remembered he was sitting on the doctor’s couch in only his smallclothes.

“Probably the best thing for you,” Dr McCoy murmured, soothingly. He turned to the person standing next to him. “Lady Emma here will take you to get a new shirt—this one should be washed.”

“I—trousers, sir?” Charles asked, feebly. Lady Emma ducked her head. Charles was sure she was trying to hide her grin.

“Yes, those too—oh, right.” Flustered, the doctor handed Charles his trousers. “Just put your tunic on over your back, for now.”

Charles tried to scrabble them on quickly while keeping himself decorously hidden under the blanket. It proved enough of a disturbance that Beast gave him a reproachful look before hauling himself to his feet and dropping to the floor heavily.

Lady Emma went to her knees and started petting the huge dog. High-born female attention safely elsewhere, Charles finished dressing and tried to bend down to fasten his shoes.

 _Ow,_ he thought, as the un-wisdom of that was revealed by his back’s protests. He wheezed for a moment and blinked sharply. Crying was not going to happen. It _wasn’t_. There was a blur of movement in front of him, and Charles flinched away, automatically.

“Here, let me.”

“Uh.” He stared. Lady Emma Frost was tying Charles’s shoes for him. Charles looked up at Dr McCoy, mutely asking for help or an explanation of what was going on, but the doctor only smiled. Beast rolled out his tongue and panted heavily in approval.

 

“Come on,” Lady Emma said, a short while later. “Let’s go get you new clothes.” She looked over to Dr McCoy. “Thank you, doctor. My maid will collect the salve and bandages later.”

Bemused and obedient, Charles went.

“Do you like your livery?” Lady Emma asked as they walked along dark-panelled corridors and up and down flights of stone stairs, and marble stairs, and carpeted stairs.

Fleetingly, Charles wondered how long it would take before he would be able to remember the layout of the Palace. Clearly, Lady Emma had no problem navigating her way around, and neither did the other children, but they’d spent almost all their lives here.

“Like it, Lady Emma?” He traced the royal crest embroidered on the left breast of his grey blue tunic. “It’s—it looks smart.” It was smart, the embroidery silvery and bright under his fingers, scratchier than the fine woven wool it covered. It was also camouflage, protection.

“Makes you look like a servant,” Lady Emma said, neutrally.

“I am a servant,” Charles pointed out, quickly. “That’s what livery’s for, to show I’m the King’s. Imagine what would happen if we couldn’t tell who was a servant by looking, it would be terrible.”

Charles bit his lip. That had sounded a little—sarcastic. It would never do to be insolent to the King’s fiancée.

“Complete chaos,” Emma said gravely. “Terrible. You should smile more,” she added after a moment.

Charles clapped his hand over his mouth.

“I said more, not less.”

“Uh.” Charles stared as Lady Emma lightly patted his shoulder.

“Unlike some people not currently present, I can spot a joke before it punches me in the face,” she assured him. “And we’re here.” She raised her hand to rap on a plain, unlabeled door that seemed exactly like all the other doors in the wing.

“Yeeees?” A dark-haired woman poked just her head through the door to stare at them forbiddingly.

He head was literally poking through the solid door. Charles stared again. The severe expression on the woman’s face melted into delighted welcome as she spotted them.

“Lady Emma! And you’ve brought a friend!” She pulled her head back through the very solid door.

“Madame Pryde is gifted in more than tailoring,” Emma said swiftly, smiling.

“I see.” Charles opened his mouth to say more, but the door flew open and they were urged inside before he could get his thoughts lined up properly.

“Sweet girl, what can we do for you today?” Madame Pryde asked cheerfully. “Who is your new friend?”

“This is Charles—” Charles bowed, jerkily. His back pulled him upright, and he hissed.

“You’re the whipping boy,” Madame Pryde said, neutrally. “We made up your livery, before you came. Is it comfortable?”

“Yes, ma’am. Very,” Charles said, wary. “I—Uh!” Madame Pryde bent in a whirl of fabric and hugged him. Mutely, he stared at Lady Emma, hoping for rescue, or an explanation, or a distraction.

“Charles is why we’re here.” Lady Emma said, as Madame Pryde continued to hug. “He needs a new shirt. And—maybe—” Madame Pryde released Charles and he staggered a step, flummoxed.

“This way.” She bustled off to a great cupboard that ran the whole of the wall.

Charles looked at Lady Emma again. She smiled, and gestured him forward. Charles hurried after Madame Pryde.

“What was that, dear?” Madame Pryde turned from the cupboard with half-a-dozen shirts in her arms.

“Charles’s back… Charles is hurt,” Lady Emma said, quietly, seriously. “Dr McCoy says he’ll talk to Dr Essex about leaving his hands alone, and Erik says he’ll try to behave better—”

 _Erik said what?!_ Charles shook his head. Doubtless the King wanted his fiancée to think well of him, but—

“But; I was wondering… if you had any, livery with thicker tunics, or trousers or—” Emma faltered, unusual in such an elegant and eloquent little lady. Madame Pryde’s eyes narrowed.

“I think I can do better than _that,_ , my dears. Try these on.”

She tossed the shirts at Charles, who shook off his resentment of the King to realize that the Lady Emma was actively trying to help him to avoid the consequences of his paid work. To help him be hurt less. Dazed, he unbuttoned his tunic, and pulled the first shirt sleeve up his left arm.

“You’re smiling,” Lady Emma said to him. “Well done.” Charles blinked at her. “Here, let me button this one.”

She tugged the crisp linen shirt over Charles’ other arm and began fastening it. Charles looked at her bent blonde head, and thought sternly to himself on the dangers of falling in love with a woman promised elsewhere, even if she clearly was a miraculous angel.

“There!” Madame Pryde came back in, grinning. She reached out. “Hand me that tunic, dear, would you?” She took Charles’s livery tunic and spread it open on the large plain table by the window. Skillfully, she began to slit the thin lining up the back.

“What—what are you doing, please?” Charles approached the table carefully. The tailor looked up and flashed him a large smile.

“Look.” She pointed at what she’d heaped on the table next to the tunic.

“Little… bags?” Charles picked one up. It was made of some thin, fine material, and was full of wadding. He was reminded of the padded protective gear Swordmaster Logan made them all wear in the salle or the practice ring.

“Buckram padding.” Madame Pryde paused to re-thread a needle. “Some folk use it to disguise narrow shoulders or thin legs.”

“Oh!” Emma laughed. “That’s brilliant!”

“But here.” Madame Pryde bent back to her stitching “I’m lining your tunics with it—carefully, mind—and it should absorb some of the worst for you.”

“Don’t forget his trousers,” Emma urged. “He gets hit there too.”

“Um.” Charles worried at his lip. “I’m not sure—is this allowed? I don’t want anyone to get into trouble.”

Madame Pryde laid her needle down, and regarded him with puzzling fondness.

“No one’s getting into trouble, Charles. I promise.”

“Especially not you,” Emma said, firmly.

“I guarantee you,” Madame Pryde said dryly, as she started sewing again. “Precious few of the noble or learned here think about how their clothes are made, one way or the other. Dr Essex”—her mouth tightened—“He’s not one of the few who do.”

Charles poked the buckram padding again. Experimentally, he laid the bag over his arm, and slapped at it. It really did seem to deaden some of the blow.

“This is amazing. Does Dr McCoy know about this?” he asked. “How does it work? Could it stop a projectile?” He poked it again. If only he had some paper and a pen, he could make some notes.

“Possibly,” Madame Pryde allowed. “Sit down, both of you—this might take a while, and I need to see how the first tunic looks before I do the others."

“Why would that be relevant, Charles?” Emma tipped her head to one side. She sat in one of the empty chairs by the table. Charles carefully chose one at respectful distance. He turned the bag over and poked at it some more.

“If it could, and it was hidden under clothing like that, it would make soldiers, or nobles, much safer without—you know how heavy and visible armour is—” Emma thrust a piece of scrap paper into his hands. “Oh. Thank you.” He looked about for—

“Pencils are in the brass tray,” Madame Pryde said, absently.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik attempts to apologise, and Charles is wary.

The candles glowing in the room reflected doubled lights off the glass in the dark windows. Erik sat on the edge of his bed, knee bouncing up and down in nervous excitement. Tonight was the night. He was going to apologize to Charles, and promise his whipping boy that from now on, things would be different. From now on, _Erik_ would be different.

Erik frowned, trying to imagine what would happen next. Maybe Charles would smile, a bit. Then they could both laugh, and Charles could relax, feel like he’d found a friend, or, or something. Of course he would still have to make it up to Charles, what he’d done. Perhaps a present.

Did Charles like presents?

Erik sidled over and poked the fire up. He added some more wood. Then he sat on Charles’s truckle bed, half tucked out of sight behind the fire-screen. Erik shuffled his feet a little guiltily. The position of the bed was his fault. He hadn’t wanted to see Charles, to look at him, before he came, so he’d made the chambermaids move the truckle bed away from under the great canopy surrounding the grand bed Erik was forced to sleep in.

Someone had found the old screen, painted with knights and ladies from centuries ago, and used it to screen Erik from having to see his whipping boy asleep. Erik had been pleased, and had ignored the fact that it meant Charles had to sleep by the fire practically like a dog. That there was nothing in the King’s chambers that he was allowed to use apart from that bed and one chest.

 _Well, that was going to change,_ Erik decided proudly. Charles would have a new bed. A better bed! And, and, furniture and things. He deserved it, after Erik had been so horrible to him. And then Charles would see that Erik really wasn’t a monster, and would forgive him and everything would be alright.

There was a scraping sound, and Erik looked up to see the sentry at his bedroom door pull it closed behind a weary-looking Charles. He was wearing one tunic and had another over his arm.

“Charles!” Erik said, and leaped to his feet, smiling.

“Your Majesty.” Charles looked at him, slightly warily. Erik toned down the smile. “I’m—I apologize for not ’tending on you earlier—Lady Emma took me to the seamstress for new shirts.” He slowly stepped further into the room.

“Oh, no—that’s—that’s fine,” Erik said, jerkily. He ran a hand though his hair. Then he gathered his courage and said, quickly: “I just. I wanted to say sorry.”

Charles blinked at him. Walked over to a chair and laid the tunic on top of it.

“Sorry?” The tone of the word turned it into a question.

“I didn’t—” Erik gave him a sheepish smile; which Charles did not return. Charles’s knuckles tightened on the bunch of white cloth—the new shirts, Erik guessed—in his hands. “You probably know I didn’t ever want a whipping boy.”

Charles swallowed. He walked around Erik carefully, as if the King was a dangerous dog on a short leash, heading to the painted chest with his shirts. Quietly he lifted the candle and the book from the chest and opened it.

“I—was aware of that, yes. Your Majesty.” His voice was soft, almost toneless, and he was—he was avoiding looking Erik in the eye, Erik realized, with a shock. Was Charles _afraid_ of him?

“So, I guess, I mean. I’m sorry,” he said, quickly. “You know.”

“Um.” Charles looked at him, quickly, shoulders tense. “Er. No?” He began laying his shirts in the chest, very carefully, as if each one was made of glass, or gold.

“For—for getting you—for everything,” Erik said. “For trying to make you leave.”

Charles shut the lid of the chest, briskly. He turned and sat on it, lowering himself carefully. Erik winced to see that care; and a sudden image of Charles’s battered back and legs flashed behind his eyes, filling him with shame.

“You—have you been trying to make me leave, Your Majesty?” Charles voice was soft and puzzled

Erik’s mouth opened and shut a few times.

“I got you punished because of me!” he said, slightly louder than he’d meant.

Charles flinched back. Carefully, Erik took a step back and raised his hands. He hadn’t realized he frightened his whipping boy so much. Did Charles think he’d actually hit him? _Well,_ he thought at himself, with some bitterness, _he knows you use other people to hit him, why not your fists as well?_

“That’s… what’s supposed to happen?” Charles said, slowly and very carefully. He eyed Erik worriedly. “Your Majesty? I’m—I’m your whipping boy, not—”

“Charles,” Erik said, very humbly. “I know. But I thought—I thought—if I was bad enough, you’d—you’d want to leave. I hurt you, deliberately. And… and I’m sorry.” He was so sorry, Erik felt, there would never be words enough for all of it.

“Your Majesty,” Charles said, plainly still bewildered. “You’ve never laid a hand on me yourself.”

Erik shook his head fiercely. It was kind of Charles to try to play his cruelty off as minor because Erik had used other people to hurt his whipping boy, but he knew what he’d done.

“Dr Essex has. And the Lord Regent and—and all that was because of me. If I’d studied harder, if I’d—”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Charles stared at Erik in deep wonder. “You thought—you thought that would make me leave?”

“What did you _think_ I was playing at?” Erik said, faintly nettled. This conversation was not turning at all as he’d hoped or expected.

“To be strictly honest, Your Majesty, I wasn’t sure if you’d actually noticed the consequences to me of your actions,” Charles said, frankly, and then gulped. “Or if you just didn’t care. Or maybe—I wondered you liked it.”

Erik felt his face crumple. He blinked, fiercely. Charles had thought he _enjoyed_ getting him hurt? _Monster,_ his brain whispered at him, jeeringly. _Monster._

“I didn’t realize you—you’d made a _plan,_ ” Charles said, earnestly, forgivingly.

“I can make plans!” Erik said, defensively. “I just—this one wasn’t fair, to you. I’m—your back, your hands, your—everything.” He paused, and breathed in. “And I’m sorry. And, and—it won’t happen again.”

Jerkily, awkwardly, Erik walked forwards and stuck his hand out. Charles looked from face to hand, puzzled

“Shake?” Erik’s heart sank. If Charles refused to shake his hand, if he didn’t think his king deserved even that token show of forgiveness, then Erik had a lot more work to do than he’d first thought.

Very carefully, Charles put his hand out. Erik delicately wrapped his fingers around the bandaged hand. Gently, they shook on it.

“No one will hurt you again. Ever,” Erik promised his whipping boy firmly. “Please say you forgive me.”

Charles gazed on their linked hands with a slow-dawning wonder. He looked up, and smiled.

“Of course I forgive you, Your Majesty.”

Erik blinked. There was an edge to that smile, something he didn’t quite understand, but it didn’t matter. Charles had forgiven him. There was hope. He released Charles’ hand, and the whipping boy stepped away, eyes lowered.

“It’s late, Your Majesty. Do you—are you tired?”

“Yes, it’s late. Let’s just—just go to bed,” Erik said quickly. He turned away toward his own bed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charles reach for the collar of his tunic, and looked out of the window, swiftly.

Silently, Erik shed his clothes and pulled on his nightshirt. He clambered into bed.

“Goodnight, Charles,” he said, possibly for the first time. There was a pause, and then

“Good night, Your Majesty.”

Satisfied, Erik wriggled further down under his covers and began to think hard. Charles still wasn’t quite sure about his King. Understandable, really. Obviously, Erik would have to show Charles how truly sorry he was. It would take time. But that was all right. He’d come up with a really good plan, first thing in the morning.

Across the room, Charles blew his candle out.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get a little better. 
> 
> And also worse.
> 
> :D?

The King was the _most puzzling boy ever,_ was Charles’s first thought the next morning. He pondered the matter as he slid out of bed and dressed behind his screen. If Erik meant it, that he was going to try to keep Charles from being beaten… Well. Between that and the new, protectively padded tunic and trousers, things might start looking up.

Charles bent stiffly to fasten his shoes. Across the room, he heard rustling, and Erik’s mutterings about how he didn’t need any help getting dressed, thank you. He must have been talking to himself; no one else was there.

He didn’t believe Erik’s promise that no one would ever hurt Charles again. Oh, he was sure that Erik meant it, last evening, but it wasn’t—people hurt Charles all the time. It’s practically what they do. Erik can’t be everywhere, stop everything. He can’t protect Charles that much, and he’d only get bored or frustrated if he tried.

“Charles?” Erik poked his head around the screen. “Come on, let’s get breakfast.” He held out a cautious hand. Charles took it and let himself be led to the Blue Parlour, that the King had previously forbidden him to enter. The King gave him a nervous yet pleased smile when he sat with the rest of them.

Charles pondered how fast things could change over a quiet breakfast, watching the noble children eat and tease each other. He kept his thoughts to himself, but he did smile at Lady Emma when she patted his shoulder in passing. She knew about the padding.

Later, lessons with Dr Essex were unexpectedly hard. Despite Erik’s new-found manners and studying, Charles was still strapped for his King’s translation errors. A sudden, sharp headache made it difficult for Charles to concentrate, and his poor performance in mathematics was likewise punished.

The padding certainly made the strapping more bearable. Dr Essex seemed even closer, even more unpleasant, but Charles didn’t pay much attention. The muttering was back, but this time it wasn’t Erik’s voice. He wasn’t sure who it was, or why no one else could hear it at first.

Then Charles realized the muttering was in his ears alone. It was in his head. He was _hearing things._ Panicked, he forced himself to focus on his map of important cities, and prayed it would go away.

Over the next few days, it didn’t.

It was possible Dr Essex had raised his standards for his King and his King’s whipping boy; or possibly he resented not being able to hit Charles’s hands anymore. By the time five days have passed, if it wasn’t for the padded trousers and tunic, Charles would be unable to sit or lie at all, despite the fact that Dr Essex was now the only person hitting him.

Erik was becoming increasingly upset with every fresh blow Charles endured. It was… touching; and it helped confirm Charles’s hope that Erik had really meant what he said, the evening he tried to promise Charles safety. It’s a single bright point in Charles’s life. He’d tell Erik that, but. He was afraid, now.

The muttering was—was really too frightening even _before_ it became actual voices.

The voices followed some people about; Dr Essex was followed by voices muttering about authority and power and Gifts, and also how enjoyable beating Charles was, which only proved how crazy Charles must be becoming. Azazel’s voices muttered about food, and weapons. Erik’s voices worried on about not being able to do things.

At least Lady Emma and Sir Janos didn’t carry any voices that Charles could hear.

Charles blinked and stared at his paper, wearily. He hadn’t slept very well last night; the persistent, gnawing fear that soon everyone would find out he’d gone crazy, and send him back, back to Kurt and to Cain, wouldn’t be ignored. The words blurred in front of his eyes.

Next to him, Erik fretted about his translation. _it has to be perfect,_ he said, _perfect. Charles can’t endure this much longer._ He trailed off, murmuring about Dr Essex’s cruelty. He’d insisted on sitting next to Charles since the day of the apology. Charles wasn’t going to tell the King he couldn’t sit wherever he liked.

“I’m fine, Your Majesty.” Charles spoke quietly. “Don’t worry, I’m tough.” The King blinked at him. Charles smiled in return, and then grimaced as Dr Essex ordered him forward.

“Charles?” Dr Essex smiled in vague, pleased puzzlement. “Why did you leave your seat?”

“You wanted—you told me to, sir,” Charles said in bewilderment. His rubbed his forehead. His headache was worse again.

“I wanted you to, yes.” Dr Essex smiled widely. “I didn’t say anything aloud.”

Erik dropped his pen. Emma sat up straight, as if she’d suddenly been poked.

“I—” Charles started fearfully. Dr Essex put a hand on his shoulder, and Charles had to control the impulse to twitch away from his teacher. What if Dr Essex felt the buckram padding?

“Charles, my boy,” Dr Esssex said, “Were you ever tested for a Gift, back home in Westchester?”

“He’s from Westchester?”

“Shut up, Az!”

“N-no,” Charles admitted. “My step-father he—he didn’t approve.”

“The reason I ask is because I think you have a Gift just starting to bloom,” Dr Essex said, impatiently. “Some kind of reading gift, perhaps like Lady Emma’s. Have you been hearing or seeing things you can’t explain?”

“Oh.” Charles’s lips were stiff, almost too stiff to talk with. “Yes.” A great wash of relief went through him. He wasn’t going crazy. He wasn’t sick.

“I’ve noticed, you see, of late you seemed to be responding almost before someone speaks, or knowing things no-one has told you, so—”

“Charles.” Erik’s voice. He turned. Erik was smiling. “You’re gifted!” Erik was _delighted_ at this; Charles wasn’t sure why.

“I—you don’t mind?” Charles looked at his fellow pupils, warily. What if they—

“We’re all gifted,” Lady Emma said. “I’m a reader—”

“I can jump!” Lord Az _jumped_ to Charles’s side, appearing in a puff of strong-smelling smoke.

“I can call the wind,” Janos said quietly, summoning a tiny whirlwind to disperse the smoke of Az’s passage.

“And I.” Erik’s chest puffed up. “Can shape _metal._ Here, once class is over, I’ll show—”

“That’s amazing!” Charles started towards Erik, only to be pulled up short by Dr Essex’s grip on his elbow.

“Charles,” Dr Essex said. “We must test you—this—further. I will help you expand your gift to its limits.”

“But—” Erik said. Dr Essex shook his head slightly. Erik subsided, with an anxious glance at Charles. “I release you from your studies for the day. Come along, Charles.”

Charles really wished Erik had not learnt manners and deference to his teachers; he’d rather have had another strapping later, if it meant Erik had imperiously commanded his whipping boy to ‘tend on him and leave Dr Essex to study alone. But alas, he had.

 

The King was alone in his chambers again, waiting for his whipping boy.

Erik was not worried, not really. Surely Dr Essex would have fed Charles at some point in the long, long day. Swordmaster Logan would never punish Charles for not attending a session, if the reason was that he was delayed by another tutor.

Only… where was Charles now? It was late evening.

The door to his chamber scraped open, and Charles stumbled in. He was a strange yellowy-white, the colour of bone, and his eyes were deep, dark bruises in his head. He looked twice as bad as he had in the morning. Erik scrambled to his feet.

“Charles!” he cried, and paused, stymied. “Are you—are you alright? What happened?”

Charles stood, swaying and looked at him, a little blankly.

“I—Doctor Essex, we—he—I have a headache.”

“Come sit down.” Erik grabbed at Charles’s sleeve and led him forwards to the great bed. “Have you eaten?” he pushed at Charles’s shoulders. Charles sat.

“Not hungry. Thank you, Your Majesty,” Charles said, shaking his head and them wincing. “I’ve been—I had to practice.”

“Your gift?” Erik put his hand on Charles’s forehead. Was it too hot? Too cold? It was clammy.

“It hurt.” Charles peered at Erik. “Did yours hurt?”

“No,” said Erik, surreptitiously wiping his hand on his trousers. “Look, I should go get Dr McCoy, maybe he has a, a tisane, or—”

“No!” Charles said, too fast, eyes widening. “I’m fine, I’m just tired.”

“Are you sure?” Erik eyed his whipping boy warily. “You don’t seem fine, to me.”

“Tomorrow? I could go tomorrow? Please, your majesty.” Charles sagged and very visibly had to force himself to sit upright. “Ugh. I want to lie down.”

“Alright.” Erik conceded. “Tomorrow. Lie down, then.”

Charles shifted as if he was trying to get up. Erik put a hand on his shoulder.

“Lie down.” Charles flopped down, obedient. His eyes closed, and then snapped open again.

“S’your bed, Y’Majesty.” He sat up on one elbow. “I—”

“It’s big enough for two,” Erik insisted. “Actually, it’s practically big enough for twenty-two, anyway, sleep here tonight, and I can get the doctor if—if you want a tisane or something in the night.”

“Oh.” Charles began to fumble with his tunic buttons. “that’s very—that’s kind.”

“Not really,” Erik said, peeling Charles out of his tunic. “I hate this bed.”

“S’comfy,” Charles said, blearily kicking off his shoes. He rubbed his cheek on the coverlet. “Warm.” He wriggled his trousers off.

“It was my father’s.” Erik spoke more to himself than the half-insensate lump of whipping boy, as he urged Charles under the covers.

“King’s bed.” Charles yawned. “Soft.”

“He should be here, not me.” Erik admitted to the empty dark.

A soft snore was his only answer.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Edie makes an attempt at getting to know Charles better; Erik blurts out a few things, and Edie takes steps.

There was less bright light in this library, because it had smaller windows. The quiet sound of the fire burning and the clean smell of books soothed Charles’s persistent headache. He slipped across the rug on the floor quietly and headed for the bookshelves around the corner. Where there were already people… people he hadn’t spotted or felt.

“Ah, Charles.” Charles pulled up short and bobbed a hasty bow.

“Your Majesty.” He took a step backwards. “I’m—I did not mean to intrude, I will—” He couldn’t hear anything from them, which would not please Dr Essex, when he had to report his day, but this was—this was Erik’s _mother_ , and her ladies-in-waiting. He couldn’t just try and read them, it was probably treason, and definitely rude.

“You’re not intruding, child.” Queen Edie took a few steps herself, towards the armchairs set enticingly by the fire. “Come sit with me.” She beckoned.

Charles waited until the Queen Mother had seated herself, her ladies-in-waiting murmuring and rustling as they followed suit, before he picked up a footstool and moved it to the Queen’s side. Somewhat hesitantly, he sat.

“Charles.” The Queen spoke softly, folding her hands in her lap.

“Your Majesty?” Charles sat upright and tried to look attentive. The two ladies-in-waiting murmured to each other as they pulled out embroidery from the basket between them, and set to their stitching.

“You’ve been with us for quite a while, but somehow I’ve not managed to speak to you very often. I must ask, are you happy here? Not homesick?”

“Yes ma’am,” Charles said, promptly. Queen Edie raised an eyebrow, and Charles felt himself floundering. “It’s very—I like it here.”

“I am glad to hear it. But I hope you are not trying to guess what I would want to hear?”

Charles mutely shook his head. He did like it here. Now Erik had settled down, and Emma’s padded tunic idea had worked, things were pretty much bearable. Well. They would be if Dr Essex would stop trying to teach Charles about his gift. Those lessons were not very bearable. Yet. But it was still better than being back in Westchester. _Homesick? Never,_ he thought.

“I’m—" _safer—_ he wanted to say—“Content, here. Your Majesty.”

“I had feared my son would cause you grief,” Queen Edie said, matter of factly.

“He’s—he’s very determined,” Charles said, cautiously.

“Ah.” The Queen looked sad.

“But he’s—he’s alright. Really.” Charles felt himself blushing, inexplicably. “And, and since my Gift—the noble children—” He broke off, and stared at his knees, twisting his hands awkwardly. What if the Queen disapproved of his tunics now they were padded? Or how much politer and kinder everyone was being to him? He didn’t want to get anyone in trouble.

There was a short pause. Charles watched an ember settle in the fire.

“Do you come to this library often, or were you exploring?” Charles stole a look at the Queen and found her grey-green eyes—so like her son’s—watching him with amused affection. He blinked. Well, she wasn’t angry, which was good, but why—why was she looking at him with fondness? As if—as if she might—

“Yes. Ma’am. I like this one.”

“This is the poetry library,” the Queen said gently. “I’m rather fond of it myself. Is there a particular poet you like?

“Estarriol. Especially the Winter Collection.” Charles leant forward. “And whoever wrote “The Creation of Ea.”

“Estarriol?” The Queen tilted her head, encouragingly.

“He’s very good—here, I’ll go find you—” Charles bounced out of his seat and scurried into the depths of the library.

Behind him he heard the ladies-in-waiting laugh, but he didn’t mind. Charles liked poetry, even if that was unusual— _Unmanly!_ his stepfather sneered in his head—he liked the idea of someone else sharing his taste for words. Even if that was the Queen.

Somebody had clearly been through the shelves since Charles had last been in the library, and Estarriol was proving elusive. Charles crouched down to check that the Winter Collection wasn’t on the bottom shelves. He had just put his hand on the volume when the library door banged open.

“Mama!”

“Erik!” the Queen said with some surprise.

“Mama, I have—I have to talk to you.” The King said, urgently. “It’s about Charles.”

Charles froze.

“And what do you have to say about your whipping boy, my son?” The Queen’s voice was cold. Charles bit his lip, all the old fears roaring back.

“You have—you have to stop Dr Essex.” Erik stuttered slightly. “I don’t think—the lessons aren’t good for Charles.”

“What?” blurted out one of the ladies-in-waiting. _What?!_ Charles blinked. That was… unexpected.

“Ladies. Would you leave us for a moment?” By the sound of rustling and murmurs, Charles assumed the ladies-in-waiting were obeying the implicit command.

“He comes back from developing his gift with headaches and, and… he’s like one of the walking dead.” Erik said. “But that’s not—that’s not the worst bit.”

“Can you explain further?” The Queen’s voice cold, careful.

“He—he hits him all the time!” Erik said, angrily.

“Erik…” The Queen’s voice warmed. “He is your whipping boy.”

Erik talked over her. “I know, and I—I’m trying to be better, but it’s not fair; if Essex is going to hit him for my mistakes, he shouldn’t hit him for his. Nobody else gets hit as much as he does. And it’s—he looks for the chance to hit him, he... can you actually enjoy hitting someone smaller than you? Someone who can’t get away?” Erik sounded deeply bewildered.

Charles sank to his knees from his crouch, almost paralyzed with the strength of the complicating and conflicting emotions listening to Erik _defend him_ raised. _Oh. Oh._

“Erik,” Queen Edie said, gently.

“I…” There was a softer rustling noise, as if Erik had raked his fingers through his hair. “I’ve tried behaving and I’ve tried working harder on my studies and—” He sounded almost frantic—“And it’s not, it’s not working, he’s still hitting him just as much and I don’t—I don’t know what else to do, Mama. I’m his—the King, I ought to be able to protect him.”

Charles blinked, and blinked again. He must have disturbed some book dust, rummaging around; his eyes were stinging. 

“A good king protects all his subjects, son.” Edie said. She turned her head and called “Charles? Could you come here, please?”

“Wha-“ Erik blurted.

“Er.” Charles crept cautiously around the bookshelf, and was rewarded with the sight of Erik looking as flummoxed as Charles felt.

“Charles.” Erik said, slowly, stepping towards him. 

“I- I didn’t mean to- to overhear, your Majesty- Majesties.” Charles said, trying not to flinch. “I-“

“I’m not sorry.” Erik said, fiercely, seizing him by the wrist and pulling Charles towards the Queen “Mama, _please._ Can’t you do something?”

“Call my ladies back.” Queen Edie smiled at the two boys. Erik went to the door and opened it. The two ladies in waiting hurried back into the room, glancing curiously at Charles. He blushed. 

“Charles. Did you find the book?” The Queen smiled at him, gently.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Charles showed it to her.

“Excellent. Would you care to share it with Erik? I must write a letter.”

“A book?” Erik looked wary. _“Poetry?”_ he added a second later, when Charles opened it.

“No, listen, this one’s really good.” Charles flipped the pages. 

“Come on, let’s sit.” Erik tugged Charles to sit at the Queen’s feet. “Now.” He said, once they were all settled. “You read.”

Charles read.

 

Several poets later, Erik looked up at the sudden whisper of moving fabric. His brows pinched as Queen Edie drew herself upright and smoothed down her dress.

“Please take this letter to Swordsmaster Logan.” She handed the sealed parchment to her first Lady-in-Waiting. Rahne pinched her lips together at having to confront the rough, hairy man, but curtsied obediently and took it.

“Now, Marie.” Edie started forward with a determined stride, skirts flaring. “Accompany me to Dr Essex’s chambers.”

“Gladly, ma’am.” Marie grinned a little.

“Mama…” Erik said, perhaps a little uncertain of just what he had unleashed.

“Do not worry, my son. You asked me to do something; I am doing it. Come along Marie.” 

At the door, the Queen looked back.

“Boys.” She smiled. “I’ll expect you both for supper in my chambers tonight.”

Charles scrambled upright and bowed.

“Yes, Mama,” Erik said, still worried.

 

“Dr Essex.”

“Your Majesty!” Dr Essex hastily set aside the thick tome he was squinting at, eyes moving rapidly from text to drawings and back again. He shrugged his teacher’s gown back over his shirt and trousers, before bowing profoundly. “A thousand pardons; I did not expect another visitor this afternoon.”

“Doctor Essex.” Edie nodded to her lady-in-waiting to wait outside. “I have come to speak privately to you about my son.”

Dr Essex’s eyes gleamed, curiously bright. He smiled swiftly, deferentially.

“How may I be of assistance, Madam?”

“Leave.” The Queen said, bluntly.

Dr Essex raised polite eyebrows.

“Resign, retire, flee in secret one night with a bag of gold if you want to, but I will have you gone from my son’s household within the month.”

“Your son is the King,” Dr Essex observed, bland.

“Precisely.” She took a deep breath. “If you are too foolish to understand how dangerous it might be, to raise a King to condone cruelty of the kind you seem to savour, well. Then you are not wise enough to tutor one.”

“Are you quite sure you have the authority you need, to order me about like this?” Dr Essex’s smile had lost most its affability. “The Lord Regent—”

“As Queen and as mother, I have authority to manage my son’s household as seems best to me, providing I avoid favoritism or foolishness. I do not consider selecting different tutors for my son to be something that would cause accusations of either.”

“But—”

“Furthermore; if you do not make preparations to leave by the end of this month, Swordmaster Logan will command a brigade of guards to dump you, and all your belongings, in the _street!_ ”

“Madam.” Essex spoke carefully, eyes narrowing as he stepped towards her. “Are you feeling quite well? Can I get you a glass of water, or—”

“I am quite well,” the Queen said steadily, holding his gaze. “Merely determined. I will not have my son taught cruelty or selfishness.”

“The Lord Regent—” Dr Essex said.

“Rules the country for his King, not his King’s household,” Edie said, quiet and cold and unshaken. “You may go with dignity and reward, or in ignominy. But you will go. It is your choice only as to _how._ ”

 

Knowing that Erik liked him (or fairness) enough to make a stand, to go to his mother over Charles being hurt was a wonderful thing, Charles thought. True, he and the King had been sharing Erik’s giant bed ever since the day his gift had bloomed, whispering together in the dark, cosy and safe, but that had been—that was not the same thing at all.

Given that the Gift development lessons always hurt, and Dr Essex would find another excuse to strap him in front of the other children anyway, being ordered to supper with the Queen superseded Dr Essex’s demands, Charles thought, rather recklessly. So he went along with Erik to the Queen’s chambers, where she often dined in private with one or two select guests.

The Queen had not told them how she intended to stop Dr Essex, and Charles wasn’t entirely sure she could, but he let himself hope, just a little. Erik seemed so much happier now that he’d got his mother on their side. That was almost enough itself.

They didn’t talk about it at the meal. Charles was too busy watching the love and teasing flowing between mother and son to worry too much, and too busy pondering Erik’s earlier behavior, and how it had made him feel. He knew that Erik had been getting increasingly unhappy each time Dr Essex strapped him, but not—not to this extent.

“There is a privy council meeting in the morning,” Edie said, gently, towards the end of the meal. Charles nibbled on a sweet pastry and listened.

“Mama,” Erik said. “I don’t know why I have to go to those, they never let me do anything.”

“You’re the King.” Charles swallowed his pastry hastily. “Without you present, the Privy Council doesn’t have anyone to advise—”

“All they advise is that I sign whatever they want me to sign,” Erik grumped. But he gave Charles a tiny smile.

“Currently, perhaps,” the Queen said, patiently. “But it will not always be so; and when you come to rule alone—”

“I’ll appoint my own councilors,” Erik said, happily.

“How will you know if they’ve got good advice if you haven’t practiced listening to the old ones?” The Queen smiled. “Even Kings have to start learning their trade before they reign.”

“Huh.” Erik subsided. Charles took the opportunity to slip another sweet pastry onto his plate.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik attends one of his Privy Council Meetings. It is not completely boring.
> 
>  
> 
> :)

The Privy Council Chamber was, fortunately for Erik’s attention span, not one of the more richly decorated rooms of the Palace. Wide windows set in cream and Lehnsherr-blue walls looked down over the cobbled yards. If Erik twisted his neck and leaned sideways, he could just manage to see the salle, and the practice ring.

It was raining; but Erik would still rather have been out there than stuck in here with all the old men. Still. Duty. Honour. _Boredom_. All a King’s lot, it seemed. He pulled himself together and sat up straight as the – his, in theory- Councilors approached. 

“Gentlemen,” the Lord Regent said, cheerfully. “Your Majesty.” He bowed at Erik, and smiled a bright wolfish smile. “It’s good to see you attending.”

“I trust…” Dr Essex spoke up, suddenly, as he moved to his seat. The royal tutor was part of the Privy Council to advise them on the King’s health and educational progress. “I trust That you are truly here to attend the Council, and not as part of some… boyish prank. Your Majesty.” His lips twisted. His chair scraped against the floorboards as he moved it.

Erik looked at him neutrally. Discourtesy would hurt Charles, he reminded himself. He waved his permission to sit sit to the whole crowd of them; hastily. 

Dr Essex was still talking. “The consequences—”

“As has been pointed out to me; my title gives me responsibilities as well as privileges,” Erik said, carefully. “And I have to start sometime.” He carefully did not look at Dr Essex, who appeared unusually sour today.

“Good. Good.” Lord Shaw glanced down at the papers in his hand. “Lord Cassidy. How stand our crops at this point in the harvests?”

“Well, in the north, we had a problem with wheat blight; however prompt actions ensured that in the country overall, the yield is no less than three quarters of what it was last year, with a little re-organization the price of wheat will not rise too greatly.”

“How much is too greatly?” Erik asked. “Please, my lord.” he added, politely.

Lord Cassidy looked at him with approval.

“A laborer’s wage is two shillings a day, lad—your Majesty, I mean. If he has to pay more than a penny a plain loaf, that’s a hardship.”

Erik nodded, and made a note. That was an interesting fact; why couldn’t Dr Essex teach him this kind of thing? The rain drummed lightly against the windows. Hopefully it was light enough that the hay wouldn’t suffer too much before it was cut. Erik loved the hay harvest.

“Hungry citizens—” Lord Shaw began.

Erik grinned and spoke over him. “Are angry citizens, yes, you say that, sir. But I think the important thing is that they’re hungry. Or, well, not this year. Thanks to Lord Cassidy.”   
The Lord Regent cleared his throat, meaningfully.

“Please forgive my interruption,” Erik said hurriedly, and the meeting resumed.

Finally, _finally,_ the meeting drew to a close. Erik wriggled in his chair. He was _starving._

“Now, before the meeting ends, do we have any other developments—”

“Yes,” Dr Essex said, slowly. Erik sat up. Trust Dr Essex to wait through the whole meeting and then try to make it last longer at the end. The other councilors murmured or raised their eyebrows in silent comment on the royal tutor’s interruption. “I am here—I must announce—my decision to resign.”

“Retire?” Lord Cassidy spoke for the whole Council. “Dr Essex, this is—”

Lord Shaw waved him into silence.

“Doctor Essex.” He spoke calmly, sounding almost disinterested. “Are you here, before the Privy Council, requesting leave to retire from your post as Royal Tutor?”

“Yes. I also intend to leave the court,” Dr Essex said, almost flat. Erik fought valiantly to keep the glee he felt on Charles’s behalf from reaching his face.

“Doctor Essex—” Shaw frowned faintly, and Erik began to worry. What if the Lord Regent refused to allow Essex to go?

“My mind is made up.” Dr Essex looked steadily at his young King. “I need more time for my research than I can devote to it whilst educating the King.”

Erik blinked tranquilly as all the Privy Councilors turned to look at him. Lord Shaw cleared his throat again.

“Well, Dr Essex. If you are certain, it only remains for the Council to, ah, thank you and cast about for some suitable token of gratitude. How long do you feel you will remain in the court?”

 _Gold,_ Erik thought happily. _Books. Fine jewels. Anything._ He’d gladly give him his crown, almost, if it meant Dr Essex was going away.

“There is one thing,” Dr Essex said, looking down at the table. “Young Master Xavier’s wardship, which I believe you currently hold, Lord Shaw? I would benefit from having an able young assistant, in my research on Gifts.”

Erik wondered who young Master Xavier was, and pitied him in advance.

“The whipping boy?” Shaw asked, plainly startled, and Erik jerked upright again, suddenly tense. He hadn’t realized Charles had a proper surname. Dr Essex nodded. _No._ Erik thought, frantically. _No!_

“I have, as you well know, a profound interest in the development of Gifts in the young,” Essex said pompously. “Charles has just developed some form of reading. His estate—”

Erik hadn’t realized Charles had an estate, either.

“Currently managed by his stepfather.” The Lord Regent sounded amused. “Although I do keep meaning to look at those rent-rolls again.” _Rent-rolls? Charles has rent rolls?_ Erik thought, and then dismissed it. Dr Essex was trying to take Charles away; and he couldn’t let that happen.

“—Would be easily managed,” Dr Essex continued, not batting an eye. “And a good place both for research and for the developing Gifted mind. Charles’s gift is very sensitive right now.”

“Hmm,” the Lord Regent said, and drummed his fingers on the old oak table.

“Your Majesty, has, I believe, in the past expressed your, ah, opposition to young Charles’ presence—” Dr Essex smirked.

“To his role,” Erik said. “Not to Ch—not to him personally.” Dr Essex stopped smirking. Lord Shaw turned to Erik, and Erik was astonished to see that his regent was smiling.

“Your Majesty. I hold Charles’s guardianship as your regent—”

“That means, if I were of age, it would vest in me, sir, wouldn’t it? To keep or dispose of,” Erik said, perhaps too quickly. The Lord Regent’s eyebrow went up.

“Indeed.”

“Well, I am not of age,” Erik said. “So I cannot command you—any of you, my lords.” He paused. “Yet,” he added.

Around the table various heads nodded, in acknowledgment. It was true, he couldn’t order anyone yet. But when he was old enough; well, then… he’d remember what happened now. And so would they. In a great matter, they’d go by what was best for the country or the Regent’s will, even if they feared Erik’s resentment when he was of age. This wasn’t a great matter, to most of them. Only to Dr Essex. And Erik.

And Charles, of course.

““I would prefer…” Erik spoke more slowly, hanging on to his temper by his fingertips. “If Charles remained here. He’s—he agreed to be my whipping boy. That makes him my—my responsibility.”

A short silence fell. The Lord Regent leant back his chair, and waited with an air of polite fascination. Another thought struck Erik.

“I’m afraid it would be impossible for me to repay Dr Essex as he truly deserves―” _and wasn’t that the truth, considering Charles’s bruises,_ Erik thought darkly. “No matter what, ah, coin he preferred.” Erik offered the man a thin, warning smile. “But when the coin is, is basically a person—”

“A person due to be inheriting a comfortable estate.” Lord Cassidy said, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “Do you have daughters, Doctor? Nieces?”

“I resent your implication, my lord!” the doctor sputtered. “I would _never_ try to defraud my ward or force a marriage-!”

“That was a question, Dr Essex. Not an implication.” Cassidy smiled. “I’ve a family of my own, as you know.”

There was another short silence. Then Lord Shaw cleared his throat.

“And so, Erik?” The Lord Regent smiled. “If you held Charles’s wardship, Your Majesty?”

“With the greatest of respect due to my Tutor,” Erik said. “I would refuse to dispose of him—it—elsewhere.” Erik drew a breath. “I would prefer Charles remained here,” he added, slightly more pointedly.

“ _What_?” Dr Essex snapped. “But you can’t stand the boy! You—”

Lord Shaw coughed, discreetly. Dr Essex fell silent, and glared.

“I see,” the Lord Regent said, slowly. “I see.” He looked at Erik thoughtfully. 

There was a brief, terrible pause.

“Doctor Essex, I am afraid that at his Majesty’s request, I cannot accede to your request to be granted guardianship of Charles Xavier,” Lord Shaw said, finally. Erik sagged with relief. “The Crown will devise a suitable form of reward, and thanks you for your service and loyalty.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles gets a hug.

The rain had passed off almost completely, leaving the evening damp and cool. Fortunately, the King’s chambers were warm and well lit- as always- in the blue of late evening.

Now that Erik and Charles shared the vast bed, the painted screen had been taken away and the truckle bed had been pushed back under the King’s bed. With the unwelcoming furniture gone, the chamber was comfortable enough again for Erik’s friends to gather. They’d used to do that a lot.

They hadn’t done so for a while; but someone—perhaps the Lady Emma who sat nearest the fire, keeping a careful eye on the roasting apples and spiced hot cider—had dragged them all there tonight. The celebratory mood was likely due to the news of Dr Essex’s retirement from Court, which had spread through the palace faster than Az could jump.

Erik was grateful for his gathered friends and the cheerful mood, not only for himself, but also for the shy but genuine smiles he was seeing with increasing regularity from Charles, as the evening went on and the level of cider in everyone’s cups sank.

Janos and Az continued trying to teach him their dice game. The retirement of Doctor Essex had lifted Charles’s shoulders from their tense set, and had lifted his head, but it hadn’t made him laugh. Az pretending to be a gambler cheating at dice, and getting caught, had made him _cackle._

“Don’t let them cheat you, Charles,” Emma said with a laugh. “You should save your earnings.”

“I wouldnever!” Janos said. Charles smiled again, and curled up on the rug by the fire. Emma wrapped a rag around the pewter tankard of spiced cider and handed it to him.

“Careful, that’s hot. And you’ve already had more than one.”

“Thank you.” Charles sipped, and coughed a little. “Oh, they won’t cheat when we’re really playing, I’m sure.” He smiled, lying down again. “Besides, we’re only playing for candied fruit, not money.” Emma looked approving.

Charles talking of money reminded Erik of something the Lord Regent had said, earlier.

“Charles,” Erik said, quietly. “Did you know you have—have an estate?” Charles sat up on one elbow and gave him a curious look. Janos smiled, lightly, as Azazel threw the dice again.

“Um, yes?” Charles cocked his head questioningly.

“I only—your guardian was Lord Marko—” Erik faltered as Charles’s face—twitched.

“He was my stepfather. But I’m your whipping boy—my guardian’s the Lord Regent now.” Charles said quickly, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“But your surname is Xavier. Dr Essex—” Erik bit his lip and shut up. Too late.

“Dr Essex what?” Charles calmly took another gulp of the cider.

“I—when he announced his retirement, today, he—he asked to be granted your wardship.” Charles paled. “Sebastian, he—he said no.”

“Phew.” Charles smiled a little thinly. “I was glad to hear he was going; I wouldn’t have wanted to—” he stopped and took another sip of cider. “Well. Anyway, yes, my father was Brian Xavier, so I’m Charles Xavier. Why are you asking?”

“I—I thought you were—poor.” Erik said. Charles raised an eyebrow and Az made a choking noise. “I mean, I didn’t know why you stayed; and you weren’t—weren’t homesick at all.” He looked at his hands, flushed with guilt. “I’m sorry.” He wondered if he'd ever be able to stop saying "sorry" to Charles.

“Erik.” Charles said, wide-eyed with sincerity. “You have to stop thinking that this was the most terrible thing ever.”

Janos muttered something under his breath.

“It wasn’t, really.” Charles turned his head. “And, of course I wasn’t homesick.”

“Of course?” Emma said gently, probingly.

Charles waved one hand. “Well, unpleasant as he was, Dr Essex had limits, didn’t he? And you, none of you ever hurt me.”

The four nobles exchanged uncertain glances.

“Limits?” That was Az.

Charles drank more cider and continued, blithely. “He was never—I mean, I was in the public eye, a little as your, uh, servant.” He flashed a quick glance at Erik who was staring, open mouthed. “And he never drank. So he wasn’t ever, going to, I don’t know, _kill_ me. Or break any bones. I stopped worrying about that when he listened to Doctor McCoy about my hands.”

“You’ve been afraid of someone killing you before?” Janos wriggled closer to Charles. Charles shrugged. "Where was—if Lord Marko was your stepfather, where was your mother?"

“Drunk, mostly. And then she died. I didn't think he'd _murder_ me. Not deliberately?” He blinked at them all, owlishly, puzzled by something. “But Cain never could stop when he got really angry, and Kurt, my stepfather, he—sometimes, you know? I got worried.”

“Ah, accidental murder only. And broken bones.” Azazel said. He looked pointedly at Erik. Erik looked at the cider tankard still in Charles’s lax grasp. Azazel nodded.

“Broken bones are mostly not so bad.” Charles said, slowly, thinking aloud.

Erik stopped wondering how much cider Charles had drunk and started worrying about who, precisely, he would need to kill on Charles’s behalf. Lord Kurt Marko, obviously. But who was Cain?

“Except then it’s harder to run.” Charles mused.

“So, you weren’t homesick because I wasn’t _breaking your bones?_ ” Erik said, stiffly. Charles peered at him, worriedly.

“Or, you know, dragging me out of bed in the night and hitting me, or, or—”

Azazel slipped off his chair, knelt at Charles’s side and dragged him into a fierce hug. Charles squawked.

“What? I—Oh, this is nice.” Charles flailed as Az’s tail straightened out his collar.

Deftly, Emma took the half-empty cider tankard away from him. He looked up at her from the circle of Azazel’s arms, bewildered. Emma set the tankard down by the fireplace and hugged both of them.

Janos looked at Erik. Erik looked back. They both moved to join the group hug more or less simultaneously.

 

The last few days of the hay cutting dawned brilliant and sunny. Half the court immediately decamped to the hayfields, to sport and drink heavily, in a show of charming rural simplicity.

Lord Sebastian Shaw, Regent for King Erik Lehnsherr III, leant back on the artfully rustic benches that had been carried to the fields by straining servants in the forenoon, and watched his King attempt to bury his fiancée in the nearest haystack.

It was a little... provincial, in his opinion, but it was traditional, the frolicking in the last of the cut hay, and so he really couldn’t stop the King and his young coterie playing like the children they’d soon have to stop being.

“Charles!” the Lady Emma begged, artfully. “Rescue me!”

The whipping boy threw himself in front of the King, who fell over. This distracted His Majesty long enough for Lord Azazel to dash in and snatch the lady out of her hay-filled prison. He vanished with her in a puff of smoke, re-appearing feet away, jeering.

Sebastian watched the by play indulgently.

“It’s good to see the children all getting along,” Queen Edie said, stepping up beside him. She was smiling in a way he had not seen her do recently.

Sebastian started to rise; she waved him back and sat down herself. He lady-in-waiting—Sebastian could not recall the girl’s name—handed her a clay cup of apple juice. However rustic they were pretending to be, the Queen could not be seen drinking ale or cider from a tankard, like a peasant granny.

“They cannot be mere children for very much longer.” Sebastian sipped as delicately as he could from the pewter tankard of cider.

“No,” the Queen Mother agreed, a little sadly. “But today—”

“Today is a good day for them to be young,” the Lord Regent allowed. His eyes narrowed. The whipping boy appeared to be shoving handfuls of hay down his King’s shirt. The King appeared to be laughing. _Interesting._

“And now Charles has come out of his shell; that is good, too.” The Queen smiled.

“Hum,” Sebastian said, non-committedly. “I suppose.” He’d not thought the boy had much under that shell; he might have to recalculate his assessment. He filed the thought away as the Queen Mother continued.

“I doubted you, at first, for choosing him. So young, so small, so unloved—I could not think it wise. I feared Erik would—”

“Young Master Xavier has hidden depths,” Shaw agreed, blandly. “I knew he would likely outlast any, ah, lack of welcome on the King’s part.” He smiled, thin and sharp.

Even if the boy was too loyal, or too canny to report on his King to the Lord Regent—as opposed to too stupid, or too fearful, which had been his first reading—he was still a useful lever on Erik, if the need arose. It seemed the young King had grown fond enough of the whipping boy he’d not wanted foisted on him.

“Oh?” Queen Edie drank more apple juice.

“He’d already experienced—well. I met his stepfather,” Sebastian said. “It was clear no one with half a brain would miss _him_ , or Charles’s stepbrother; not when the alternative was the Court. Even if that did mean, well—” He waved a hand, lazily. The King’s sulks and Dr Essex’s taste for the strap and the cane need not be mentioned aloud, now the irritating man had left court, with one of Sebastian’s spies in tow.

“It could have ruined Erik.” The Queen’s lips thinned. “Not been the push to become something greater, but to become worse. He’s wild, but he’d not been cruel before.”

“He had to learn.” The Lord Regent was unapologetic. “He is King in name; when he comes to be King in fact, he must know how his actions will impact others, whether he intends—or wills—them to or not.”

“You intended this from the first?” The Queen’s eyes went back to the children. Shaw shook his head.

“He had to learn to act after he thought. Impulsiveness isn’t a good trait in a man; but it can be lethal, in a King.” He tasted his cider again, and smiled into her worried eyes. “I was quite prepared for some maneuvering, for Erik to try and free himself of a whipping boy. Happily, it all turned out rather better than that.”

The Queen looked a little shocked. Shaw held up a hand.

“I serve Erik as I served his father. As I serve the country. King Jacob was a good man, much missed by many.” The Queen looked away for a moment, and when she looked back, she turned the subject a little.

“Your gift is long life; why would you do that?”

“Serve?” The Queen nodded. “The Regency… it’s a challenge. I have slaved and served, and I have reigned, before now. It all grows dull, my lady.”

“A very long life,” the Queen murmured. Erik slid down the tallest haystack, whooping. Charles followed him.

“I don’t serve out of humility, but out of pride,” Sebastian mused to himself. “I will serve a great King, or none.”

“I’m not sure that Erik qualifies, right now,” The Queen said, as she watched her son being sat on by all his friends. He cried out, in protest. Charles got up, but the other nobles stayed sitting.

“I serve the King he will be.” The Lord Regent shrugged away the Queen’s doubts and queries. It was, after all, true. As far as it went.

In a few years’ time, when Lady Emma had produced the next generation, the Lord Regent would consider again whether the man he served was a great King, or merely a good man.

Lord Sebastian Shaw was perfectly happy to serve a great King, even if he was not a good man. He would not shore up a good King who was too weak to be a great one. A great ruler was a challenge and a joy to work with; a weak one, however good, was an intolerable burden to state and to Lord Sebastian Shaw alike.

Erik _would_ be a great King, or he would not be King for long.

The Lord Regent smiled, pleasantly, at the Queen Mother.

“Someone should call them in to their supper,” he said. “It’s growing late.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles has truly settled into the Court, and someone unexpected turns up.

Two Months Later

 

Bright winter light spilled into the Blue Parlour, catching sparks of dust in the air and washing the table with a cheerful light.

Charles leaned against Sir Janos and watched as Az and Erik fought a mock swordfight with the remains of their breakfast bread.

“You are all disgusting,” Lady Emma said primly, buttering a final slice of bread. Az rubbed the bread crust under his arms and then attempted to thrust it into Erik’s mouth. Erik resisted.

“Hey!” Charles protested. “We aren’t doing anything!”

“Precisely,” Emma said, but her eyes were smiling. The table rocked. “Erik, if either of you spill anything on _this-_ dress, I will kill you in your sleep.”

“Ah, young love.” The Queen spoke from the doorway. They all jumped up to bow or curtsy, but Edie waved them back down. “When I was your age, we waited at least until the wedding for the death threats,” she said brightly, sitting by her daughter-in-law-to-be.

“Treason,” Erik said mournfully, from where Az was pinning him to the bench. “Good morning, Mama.”

“It’s not treason, precisely,” Charles said helpfully. “Not unless there’s a conspiracy. This is closer to—”

“Have you been at the law books again?” The Queen laughed. “We must find you all another tutor soon. There’s five of you, but if my old grey hairs can keep up with you—Mother have mercy on them—then a younger soul or two should be able to.”

“But you don’t have any grey hairs, Your Majesty.” Charles kept his eyes wide and his face sincere, just as Emma had taught him. “Shouldn’t you be praying to the gods for mercy on all your hair?”

Emma gaped. Janos choked on his apple and had to be thumped on the back by Lord Azazel.

"My lady Emma." Erik spoke swiftly. "Please teach my whipping boy how to deliver a compliment that doesn't make everyone want to vomit."

"My lord." Emma’s voice was dry as dust. "Your lady is willing to do that just as soon as her husband-to-be has learnt how to compliment her."

"So, sometime next century, then?" Charles cheerfully shoved the last of his cheese in his mouth and felt Sir Janos laugh almost silently, next to him.

Erik sulked. Visibly. The Queen laughed aloud, and moved to ruffle Charles’s hair.

“The first of your guests are beginning to arrive, my son. I trust you will not show them _that_ face.”

“Guests?” Erik perked up.

“My lord to be has to pick out his _special best friends_ from among the brats of the nobility and offer them a place in his circle of companions.” Emma chewed a bite of her bread.

Erik sagged again.

“They’re not _all_ brats,” Az said. “Lord Cassidy’s eldest son’s coming, and I heard the Lord Regent invited the Summers brothers, too.”

“I thought—” Charles paused. “Don’t you already have noble friends?” He gestured to the grouped round the table. His heart squeezed a little within him; he knew he was well enough born to associate with the King’s small group, but Charles also knew his family line was not a noble one—and that was _before_ he got to his stepfamily’s habits and personalities.

Charles wondered why the idea of Erik getting yet more noble friends should make him feel unsure. It was not as if Erik would want to be friends with anyone who would be less than pleasant to his whipping boy. Not for long.

“Of course everyone here’s going to be part of the circle,” Erik said, perhaps seeing Charles’s sudden uncertainty, and growing impatient with it. “I just have to have more; or all the nobles with children my age will get fretful.” He rolled his eyes.

“It’s just like all those balls they hold in the fairy tales. When the Charmed Prince is looking for a spouse,” Emma said. “Except Erik’s a King, not a Prince.”

“Nor is he charming,” Az murmured to Janos, who grinned.

“And he will not be marrying any of them,” Queen Edie put in, clearly amused.

“He can if he likes,” Emma said. “As long as they know _I_ was here _first._ ”

“I’m not marrying anyone!” Erik said, horrified. He caught sight of Emma’s expression, and added, hastily, “Except Emma. Later.”

“Much, much later,” Emma agreed. “When you’ve grown up.”

“I’m going to the stables,” Erik said firmly. “I want to inspect the new horses again.” He hovered at Charles’s elbow, and ducked down to kiss his mother swiftly. “Come along, Charles,” he added, pulling on Charles’s tunic sleeve. Charles tried hard not to be reminded of an anxious three year old, trying to guide his parent somewhere.

“I’m going to the stables,” Charles said to the table. “Apparently.” Erik tugged at him again, so he rose and bowed his leave to all.

“Come _on!_ ”Erik said as the left the room. “If we hang about they’ll find something for me to do, and there’s the audience this evening.

There were seven new horses in the stable, and they were in the quarantine block for the month. After murmuring a few words to a stable hand, they were allowed in with stern warnings about frightening the new intake.

Erik stripped off his embroidered velvet tunic—like and unlike Charles’. Like in that it was the same Lehnsherr blue, and carried the M-shaped crest of his house; unlike in that it was very clearly not part of anyone’s uniform. He hung it on a handy nail.

“You have a coffee stain on your shirt,” Charles felt compelled to point out. “Also gravy and… His head tilted. “Is that wine?”

“The horses don’t care,” Erik said, practically. “And it’s clean; they just can’t get the stains out.” He walked slowly towards the first loosebox. “We don’t want to go in together, we’ll scare them,” he added over his shoulder.

Charles wandered off to his (secretly favourite) horse, a chestnut four year old with clear, deep eyes and beautiful lines. 

One day, Charles hoped, he might be allotted a horse; or manage to save up enough of his whipping boy’s pay to afford a horse half as good as this one. He’d long ago given up any hope that Kurt and Cain would leave anything for him to inherit from his father. _At least,_ he thought _I’m safe and paid, here_. And that was all that mattered, in the end.

He lifted her feet, one after the other, and spent several pleasant, dreaming moments currying her, and pretending she was his, before heavy steps at the door to the stall broke him out of it.

“Hey. You.” Charles froze at the ugly voice, familiar after so many years enduring “Get your ass over here, boy, tell me where my horses get stabled.” The horse side stepped, sidling nervously in the loosebox. Slowly, Charles turned round.

“W-what are you doing here, C-Cain?”

“Charlie?!” Cain stared at him for a moment, clearly surprised, and then a slow, familiar grin covered his face. Charles’s stomach sank, and his heart started beating rabbit-quick.

“W-what are you doing here?” Charles forced the words out from between numb lips.

“Huh? Oh, Dad.” Cain glanced away. “Said it’s time we try and use our resources, make friends at court.”

 _“What?”_ Too late, Charles realized he’d forgotten to modulate his tone. Cain’s face twisted, and he stepped into the loosebox. Towards Charles. The horse whickered nervously.

“What, you don’t think we can make nice with all the blue bloods, Charlie?” Cain sneered. “ _You_ seem to be doing all right. Get your ass out here and show me how it’s done.”

Charles didn’t move. Cain sighed and moved towards him.

“Now, Charlie.” Charles backed away, but there was so little space in the box, and he couldn’t frighten the horse and—

Cain seized him by the arm and the ear and dragged him out of the box. He twisted, and shoved Charles up against the dusty plank wall of the stables.

“Ready to listen?” Cain said, quiet. “Dad says—” And for the first time, Charles thought Cain looked a little frightened. “Dad says, there’s a bunch of people who get to be friends of the King and get, like, rewards. Money, quarters. And the King’s picking them soon. He wants me to be one of them.”

“The circle of companions,” Charles said, flatly.

“You’re going to—”

“What, tell you how to get the King to make you a Companion?” Charles giggled, mostly terror, but partly amusement. “Never going to happen, Cain.”

“You won’t like what happens to you if you don’t.” Cain pulled back and punched Charles in the stomach—not as hard as he might have done. Charles doubled over. “See? And I bet it can get worse; if I talk to your tutors—hells, what if I get the King angry with you?” Cain pulled Charles up with one huge fist curled in the front of his shirt. “Or howsabout the Regent? They must love whipping that pasty ass if they’re going to pay someone to take it—”

“Cain.” Charles grabbed on to his stepbrother’s wrist. “I can’t-!” Cain hit him again. “I really can’t; there’s-uh-! Restrictions. It’s—” Cain twisted his wrist, and seized Charles’s arm, crushing it in his grip. Charles hissed in pain.

“Wrong answer, Charlie,” he sneered. “Don’t suppose they’ll notice a few more bruises on you, anyway.” He drew his fist back, and Charles cringed in anticipation.

“What’s going on here?”

Charles shot a frantic look over Cain’s shoulder. He was suddenly awash with relief. _Erik_. He’d somehow managed to get his shirt even more dirty, and he was empty-handed, but he was _there._

Cain turned slowly, threateningly. Charles wriggled away from him.

“Just talking to my stepbrother. Nothin’ to do with you, boy,” Cain sneered down at Erik from his 16 years of height. Erik glared back, every inch of his 13 year old self supremely unimpressed. “Get back to your work.” Cain waved him away.

“Charles?” Erik cocked his head. His eyes were a cold, cold, grey now. Sword-coloured, Charles thought, vaguely. “What’s going on?” Erik seemed very… stiff? Tense? Charles wasn’t quite sure. Too much of his attention was taken over by the mindless fear caused by Cain’s presence here, here in the Palace, where he wasn’t supposed to be, where Charles was supposed to be safe.

Cain raised a fist. “I _said—_!”

“Don’t, Cain.” Charles licked dry lips. Cain whirled back towards him, and he flinched. Erik’s hands curled into fists. He lifted his chin in way that Charles knew meant trouble. “Better be careful,” Charles said to Erik, a strange hysteria bubbling through him. “He might try to get you in trouble with the King.” Erik frowned in confusion.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that!” Cain roared. He was bright red with—rage? Fear? Charles couldn’t be sure. “If you’re getting uppity, living here, we can just take you back, you know!” He swung, and Charles ducked under his meaty arm, and ran.

“Orchard,” Charles gasped. He snatched at Erik’s arm as he headed past him, pulling his King away from Cain, away to safety, and then they were both running.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles's friends plot, and Charles is bewildered and eventually comforted.

Erik drifted away quietly to let Charles spend some time communing with his favorite new horse. He had a good eye for horseflesh; the mare in question was among the best of the new intake.

The mare was a good indicator of the kind of horse Erik should give Charles when his birthday came around. Charles could ride, more-or-less, but he didn’t own a horse of his own. There were many horses available to them in the royal stables, of course, but Erik felt Charles would _like_ a horse of his own; probably as much as Erik was planning to enjoy giving one to him.

Just as soon as he found out when Charles’s eleventh birthday actually _was_.

He’d asked Emma to find out; but she’d refused. Murmured something about morals and mind reading and told him to simply _ask_. Which was plainly refusing to see the point; of course Charles would tell Erik his birthday if he asked; Erik was the King. But… Erik didn’t want to do that; he wanted to know, to surprise Charles, to make him laugh—

 

Something was wrong.

Afterwards, Erik wasn’t quite sure what had tipped him off: whether he’d heard Cain’s footsteps or voice, or if he’d felt the fear and distress Charles was projecting. Whatever it was, it drew him back to the mare’s loosebox, an urgency speeding his steps that he didn’t understand until he saw the older boy—almost a man, and certainly as big as some men already—bent over Charles.

Threatening him. _Hurting_ him, when Erik had already promised Charles that wasn’t going to happen again, when Charles was _under his protection—_

“What’s going on here?”

Charles looked up, and his face—changed as he saw Erik. He was still deathly white, but he was glad Erik was there. The knowledge was a cool wash of calmness down Erik’s spine. He drew a deep breath, and waited for an explanation. Who was this boy, hurting his Charles, and why didn’t he-?

And then Cain spoke: dismissing Erik as no more than a servant, and identifying himself as Charles’s stepbrother. The cool wash down Erik’s back turned to ice; ice and steel. If this blundering, brutal oaf hurt Charles in front of him, he was going to die _right there._

Since Charles had told them just a little bit about his past; about how he’d been able to cope with Dr Essex, and, well, Erik, and everything, Erik had decided he was going to have to do _something_ to the Markos as punishment. Seeing Cain Marko threatening Charles in all his over-muscled adolescent glory, murder seemed like a good start point.

“He might try to get you in trouble with the King,” Charles told him, and he was laughing; but not—not the happy, open laugh Erik liked and didn’t hear often enough; this laugh was a strange, almost forced, high giggle. As he ducked past his looming stepbrother, Erik reached out for him, seizing Charles’ hand.

“Orchard!” Charles gasped, and pulled his King into open flight. They ran from the stables, and Cain’s blundering pursuit faded quickly behind them.

“My chambers,” Erik suggested, once he was sure Cain was out of earshot. Charles turned his head and looked at him. “Come on, they’re safer,” Erik said, impatiently. Charles nodded. They hurried back to Erik’s rooms quickly and quietly. Erik stole several glances at Charles as they went. His whipping boy was still too pale, and moved stiffly, as if he’d been hurt.

Erik shut the door, and urged Charles to the hearthside.

“You sit there,” he said. “I’ll get Dr McCoy—”

“N-no!” Charles said. “I—I’m fine.” Erik looked at him. He touched Charles’s forehead; damp but no fever. “Really,” Charles insisted, a little desperately. “I’m—I don’t want any trouble—”

The door swung open and Charles jumped, clutching at Erik’s arm for a moment before he forced himself to let go.

“What’s wrong, Charles? I could feel you down the hall.” Emma crossed the floor. “Why is he shivering?” she asked Erik, sharply.

“I didn’t do anything!” Erik protested. “His stepbrother’s here. In the stables. So’s his stepfather. Well. Not in the stables, but—”

“They’re going to take me back,” Charles said to the fire, voice almost dreamy with frightened despair. “He. He said.”

“No, they’re not,” Erik and Emma said as one. They looked at each other.

“Go get Az and Janos,” Emma said firmly. “We need to plan.”

“But—”

“Now, Erik!” Emma spoke without looking at him as she crouched in front of Charles.

“I’ll ask the guard at the door to pass the word,” Erik said firmly. “But I’m not leaving Charles.” He went to the door.

“Charles. I think your shields are down.” Charles blinked.

“Sorry,” he said, miserably.

“Don’t apologise.” Emma was brisk. “Let’s get this—you—fixed.”

“Come wash your face.” She urged Charles up and walked with him towards the washstand. She poured out fresh water, and watched as Charles washed his face.

“Why would you think Erik would let anyone take you away?” Emma spoke softly.

“I.” Charles wiped his face with the towel. “Cain—he said—Kurt wanted him to be part of the King’s companions, and, and, if he wasn’t he’d—they were taking me back; and—”

“And you knew Erik wouldn’t use either of them for shoe leather, let alone—”

Charles shook his head. “They’re not—not noble enough. Like me.” He looked down at the towel in his hands. “And what if—”

“Shh.” Emma drew the twisted cloth out of his hands and laid it over the bowl. “Come sit down again.” They headed, not for the fireplace, but for the bed. Charles didn’t seem to notice. Erik shut the door again behind them and sat down next to Charles, bracketing him between Emma and himself.

“I-if Erik did—then I’d—he’d be here, and I’d be here, and he, he wouldn’t stop and—” Charles looked up, bright blue eyes full of tears. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know why—I can’t think.”

Erik looked a question at Emma over Charles’s head. She mouthed something back at him. He frowned.

_Hug. Him. You idiot._

Erik wrapped an arm around Charles. He rested his chin on the top of Charles’s head and smiled as he felt Charles sag towards him.

“I’m going to kill him,” he said to Emma, who leaned in towards Charles, and smiled.

Charles made a protesting noise, and then went rigid in their arms as the door opened again.

“Good plan. Can I watch?” Emma said, cheerfully.

“Watch what?” Az said. His eyes went wide and he stopped so abruptly that Janos bumped into him. “What’s wrong?”

“Charles’s stepfamily is here,” Emma said, answering both questions at once. “Shut the door, please.”

Janos slammed the door shut and hurried towards the little huddle on the edge of Erik’s bed.

“And I’m going to kill his stepbrother,” Erik said. Charles gaped at them.

“No, no my friend.” Az said, genially. “You’re the King. I’ll kill them—” Janos scowled. “Fine, alright, _we’ll_ kill them.” Az said, placating, as he dragged a footstool over.

“I really want to kill him,” Erik muttered.

“You can pardon us, if Emma’s alibi doesn’t pan out.” Janos suggested, diffidently.

“I don’t understand.” Charles said, bewildered, but calming.

“What don’t you understand?” Az looked down at him, a bright, hard glint in his usually laughing eyes. “We are your friends, now, yes?”

Charles nodded, hopefully. They were, but—

“That means we get first pick when it comes to killing people who hurt you or want to take you away from us.” Az sat on the footstool. “Let’s plan this,” he said smartly. “I can Jump with them, before they can do anything. I vote I get to drop them off a cliff.”

“I vote knives.” Janos said. “Knives are better. A whole whirlwind of knives.” He nodded to himself in quiet satisfaction. 

“I was thinking I could just throw a spear through them both with my Gift,” Erik said. They all looked at him. “Spears are cool.”

“It’s not—you’ll get in trouble,” Charles blinked fiercely.

He really, really wanted to believe that the four nobles were his friends; but he knew the idea of being free from the Markos was just a dream. _They can’t kill them. Not really,_ he thought, sadly, and tried to pull himself together. He owed it to his friends to at least try to function.

“Even if we let them live,” Emma said in her firmest tone, “so they can suffer properly, they are not going to take you back.” Charles stared at her. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, but—” Charles bit his lip. He hadn’t cried in years. He was not going to cry now, he wasn’t—

“Hey.” Az’s tail tipped Charles’s chin up. “It’s alright. We’re here.” His tail curled away, elegant and ready to strike.

“We’ve got you, now.” Janos added, patting Charles’s knee. “They can’t have you back.”

“Ever,” Erik said, fiercely. “I promised you, didn’t I? No one gets to hurt you again.”

Charles tucked his face into Erik’s chest and let the tears come.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made, people are comforted, and Erik gives a public audience.

After far too long, Charles was able to get his crying under control. Erik’s tunic was damp and horrible with his tears.

“S-sorry, your majesty,” he managed, and felt Erik stiffen.

“Why—what are you apologizing for, Charles? And please call me Erik.”

Charles rubbed a hand across his face, dashing away the last stubborn tears.

“For, for—everything—for cr—”

“You are not trying to apologize for having feelings?” Az spoke lightly. “Do not be, you know we all must model feelings for Erik here, the automaton—” Erik growled in Charles’s ear, which was a strange sensation, not exactly unpleasant, but strange. “—So he knows what they look like,” Az finished, and sat next to Janos on the footstool.

“Hey!” Erik said, indignant. Charles sighed. He sat up a little; maybe if he pretended he hadn’t just been slumped and dribbling tears all over his sovereign, nobody would mention it. He rubbed his face again, and tried to think. The quiet throb of panic underneath everything made it so very difficult.

“They’re not going to hurt you again,” Erik told him, and Charles tried to believe it. “I’ll not have them at Court, they can just crawl back to a suitable hole.”

“But—” Charles’s voice seized up. “What if they take me—”

“I won’t allow it,” Erik said, steel and stone in his voice.

“Nor will the Lord Regent,” Emma pointed out in a breath of cool rationality.

“But—” Charles’s voice cracked.

“If they tried to regain control of you, or took you, Azazel would jump you away from them,” Janos said firmly, and everyone was silent for a long moment.

“Yes.” Az said. “Of course I would. Janos, that is a brilliant plan.” He looked at Charles. “I will take you to my father’s lands; the winters there are cold, but very beautiful. And my mother wants to meet you; she said so in my last letter.”

“Uh,” Erik said, not quite knowing how to object to the plan. It would take Charles out of danger, which was good, and already he was looking calmer, but it would also take Charles away from the—away from Erik, which was not good.

“Back up plan only,” Janos pointed out, and smiled up at Charles. “We need a proper plan so we don’t need it, but—”

“Oh,” Charles said, and felt a smile emerge onto his face, wobbly and unsure, but there. “Yes, that does—that does help.”

He took a deep breath, and felt the ground start to steady itself under him. Kurt and Cain might be here, might be planning to hurt him or take him away, but Charles’s friends were also here; and they—they were willing to help. Willing and able to help him.

“Right,” Lady Emma said, decisively. “Let’s put our heads together and _think._ ”

 

“I—Are you sure this is going to work?” Charles asked, nervously. “I mean it’s not—we’re just—”

“This isn’t about _working,_ ” Lady Emma told him, seriously. “This is just preparing the foundations; so they see you’ve got friends and allies they’d be wise not to piss off.” She smiled a little. “Eat your soup.”

“Not very hungry,” Charles murmured to his bowl. He wasn’t. The soup tasted delicious, but sat in his stomach like a heavy weight.

“You know how long the audiences go on for; you need to keep up your strength. Spoon in soup, lift to mouth, spoon in mouth, that’s how it goes.”

“Yes ma’am.” Charles obeyed.

“Better,” Emma said, critically. “Erik and the others will be back in a minute.” She said, more softly, “And then you can go change into your best tunic—”

“I’m wearing my livery,” Charles said, quietly. “That’s who— _This_ is where I belong.” He patted the silver embroidered crest on his chest.

“A clean set, right?” Emma smiled at him. “And I get to brush your hair.”

“Yes, Emma,” Charles said, and swallowed more soup.

 

“We’ve had the Cassidy’s presentation, and the Summers brothers—when will the Markos be presented?” Erik grumbled quietly from his throne, watching the gorgeously dressed crowd mill about below the dais. Charles shifted position on his cushion, and felt Erik’s leg press against him in quick reassurance. Emma leant forwards on her stool and patted his shoulder.

“Soon,” Charles said aloud, and swallowed.

 _We’re all here,_ Emma said, privately. She could feel how afraid Charles really was, and how hard he was working to keep that fear controlled.

“You have to realize,” Az said, from his place leaning on the side of the throne, behind them, highly amused. “That Emma must truly love you, Charles; she’d never sit lower than our esteemed King for any other reason.”

Janos thumped Az on the arm, and snatched at his tail when it approached his face. Emma did not dignify the truth with a response.

Charles leant back again, and glanced down at the small brooch pinned to his velvet livery. Erik had sheepishly presented it to him just before they entered the audience hall. It was only silver wire; a light, small copy of the royal crest, but Erik had made it for Charles himself, with his gift. There was a stir at the back of the hall. Charles stiffened.

“Lord Kurt Marko and his son, the honourable Cain Marko,” the herald said. Charles sat up straight.

 _Charles is relying on me to fix this_ , Erik thought. It was as much an exhilarating thought as it was terrifying. He leant forward and smiled. It was not a friendly smile, not at all.

“Lord Marko,” he said coolly. “Cain.” He left the surname off Cain’s name, and waited for the penny to drop. He noted the paling of Cain’s face, the widening of his eyes as he recognised Erik from the stables, and smiled some more. It was a beautiful moment.

He nudged Charles with his knee and bent to whisper. "Never knew my smile could act as a laxative before."

"We should bottle it,” Charles murmured back. And he lifted his head and smiled, wide and sharp and almost as wolfishly as Erik himself, at his former guardian. It was mostly bravado, but they never had to know that.

“Your majesty,” Lord Marko said. “I—it is very gracious of you to welcome us.” His clothes were not as rich or well-cut as those about him; and Erik was grimly pleased to note that; along with the uncertainty the man was trying to hide, not well enough.

“I’m sure you are pleased to know how well Charles is settling in,” Erik said, silky and cold. He summoned up an image of Emma at her most dangerous for inspiration. “I value good service and appreciate loyalty as much as the next King.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lord Marko said, blandly. He opened his mouth again. Erik spoke over him.

“Which is why I’m sure you’ll be happy to know, I feel honoured to be able to count Charles as one of the first of my circle of companions.”

 _What?_ Charles thought, startled. His head jerked up. Erik smiled at him.

“Surprise!” he said, low. “Happy Birthday!”

“It’s not my birthday for a month,” Charles said, startled. Erik shrugged. “Happy _something_ , then.”

 _I looked it up,_ Emma said, reader to reader. _With Janos. It’s the King’s will that makes the Circle. You shouldn’t be so surprised; he was going to do this from the first._

“What?” Kurt said aloud, and a whisper ran through the crowd. Erik’s opinion of whipping boys was well known; and yet, here he was, elevating Charles publicly into being an acknowledged friend of the king, a true companion, rather than just another paid hireling. The gossip would last for months.

“I have already given him the first badge,” Erik said, and smiled some more. Charles carefully kept his hands away from the silver brooch, suddenly even more precious than it had been when Erik had given it to him. He wanted to hug it, which was probably inappropriate for public audiences.

“That’s very, ah, generous—” Kurt said, bemused and straining for geniality.

His stepfather looked at Charles, and his eyes were unloving, cold and full of calculation. Charles leant into Erik a little harder. Erik glanced down. _Not shaking, not shivering... But he’s not smiling or talking, either,_ Erik thought, worried. He put a hand on Charles’s shoulder that Emma wasn’t clasping.

"It's hardly generosity," Erik said aloud, ignoring the byplay. "When I receive so much more than I gave, at least to start with." He squeezed Charles’s shoulder, lightly.

Charles smiled wanly up at him. He was able to recognise an Erik-apology when he heard it, now. He patted the little brooch, and saw Erik’s smile widen.

Cain was still goggling like a stunned fish. Erik turned to smile at him.

“Is your son quite well, Lord Marko?” he asked, delicately. “My physician, Dr McCoy—”

“He’s—fine. Your Majesty,” Kurt gritted out. “Thank you.”

“Good, good,” Erik said, placidly, and pointedly.

He let the following silence declare for him that he was _not_ going to invite Cain into the Circle along with his stepbrother, or take him hunting or make any of the traditional gestures of welcome and hospitality, as he had with Sean Cassidy or Alex and Scott Summers.

Az made a low remark, too quick and quiet to catch. Janos laughed and nodded at Cain. He flushed. Kurt grabbed for his son’s arm, outwardly casual, but, judging by Cain’s wince, inwardly crushingly forceful. _Good,_ Erik thought, with a bitter sort of satisfaction. _If you know what being bullied is like, you shouldn’t pass it on to others._

Emma had been staring at Cain since Kurt started talking. Cain smiled at her and opened his mouth. Emma blinked, once, and glared at him, clearly attempting to weld his eyeballs to the back of his head with sheer willpower. It seemed to be reasonably effective. Cain’s mouth hung open, unattractively.

Almost as if he’d forgotten what he was going to say. Charles glanced up at Emma, questioning.

 _We readers have to stick together,_ she said into his head. _Especially those of us around our noble king._

_I question your description of Erik, _Charles sent, relaxing under her touch and his King’s. _I really do._ The longer he spent there, able to stare his stepfather and stepbrother in the eye, untouchable under the royal and friendly protection the four were displaying, the better he felt.__

___I question your ability to detect sarcasm, _Emma shot back. _Shush. I want to see Erik shred them some more. He's starting to have fun.___ _ _

_____So am I,_ Charles realised, in slow surprise. _So am I.__ _ _ _

____He watched as the pair shuffled away, not quite fitting in, not welcomed fully by the King and so fit food for the Court’s delicate mockery, and felt a strange, bittersweet glee. Charles had a place here, at the King’s side, a role in the court as Erik’s whipping boy, and it—and the friends it had brought with it were all his own. They couldn’t take them._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter update will be Tuesday; as I am away in the Welsh wilds at the Sci-Fi Weekender convention. Have fun til then!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Markos are disposed of, and the story ends.

Charles tried not to stare too openly as the guard at the door opened it and announced him. He’d had never been to the Lord Regent’s private rooms before. Back in the bad beginning times, when Lord Shaw had had to beat him in Erik’s name, times Charles never really thought about any more, he’d done it at a public audience, in the public rooms.

“Ah. Charles.” The Lord Regent turned from where he stood near the fireplace, contemplating the small fire in the ornately carved hearth. He favoured His Majesty’s whipping boy, recently named Erik’s First Companion, with a thin smile.

“Sir?” Charles hovered cautiously by the old oak door. “Y-you sent for me?” Anxieties flooded his mind. Charles could not imagine why he’d been sent for—or why Erik had not been allowed to skip his public audience giving to come along, too.

“Stop shaking in your shoes, boy, and come in.” Shaw waved, commandingly. He took a step or two, as if to set an example.

Charles crept into the room, giving the Lord Regent a wide berth. His shoes made a whispering sound as he trod over the rich carpets towards the fireplace.

“I sent for you to inform you of a sad matter to do with your late father’s estate,” Lord Shaw said, seating himself behind his vast and ancient desk. He didn’t invite Charles to sit. Charles said nothing. After a slight pause, the Lord Regent continued. “The rent-rolls—the account books—they’ve been, shall we say, mis-managed?”

“But my s—Lord Marko—” Charles faltered. Although Charles was starting to believe the Markos couldn’t touch him at Court, thanks to Erik’s outspoken support and the circle’s unwavering loyalty to their King, he was by no means sure they were completely toothless.

“Precisely,” Shaw said, shaking his head as if he was made very sad by the whole thing. “Your mother chose… poorly, a second time, I believe.” Absently, he leafed through a few of the papers on his desk.

Charles said nothing. He still wasn’t really sure how he felt about his mother, let alone who she’d married the second time. Even if he had been, the Lord Regent was very, very low on the list of people Charles would choose to talk about her to. Assuming he was on that list in the first place. He shuffled his feet.

“In any case.” The Lord Regent steepled his fingers and gave Charles a gravely sympathetic look. “I have had to remove your stepfather from caring for your estates—”

“Why?” Charles blurted. Why was the Lord Regent doing this? He wondered if that meant the monies from the manor house and lands that had once belonged to his father would now end up with the Lord Regent, or if he would ever see any of them himself.

“I detest waste,” Lord Shaw said, calmly. “Revenge is wasteful.” He gave Charles a pointed look. Charles did his best to look blank and bland. “So is tolerating the mis-management of land. If a steward cannot do his job, he should be replaced.”

Charles gulped and hoped that Kurt _never_ heard himself described as a mere _steward._ Such an insult could only end in blood; most likely Charles’s. If he knew it was the Lord Regent describing him so—Lord Shaw was still talking.

“―expel them both.”

“What?” Charles blurted. “Sorry, Sir,” he whispered, tongue thick in his mouth. Had he heard that correctly? Charles didn’t quite dare hope.

“Unfortunately, it is apparent to many people that your, ah, former family are not really suited to life at Court.” Lord Shaw smiled faintly. “My researches have shown that they are not that comfortable with life as landed nobility outside of the Court, either.” He silently regarded Charles for a long moment.

 _Not really suited to life at Court,_ Charles thought, bitterly amused.

He took care not to smile or react too severely in front of Lord Sebastian Shaw, automatically. Perhaps it was simply because Charles could read so little from him; perhaps it was the memory of how matter of fact he’d been about administering a beating that had left Charles’s shirt sticking to his back, but even if Charles couldn’t quite put his finger on why, the man scared him, riding crop or no. He blinked, and forced his thoughts away from dangerous speculation.

No, the Markos were not suited to life at Erik’s Court, as it was becoming.

Erik and Emma between them had seen to most of that. The pronounced… not enmity, perhaps, but deliberate disinterest that the boy King had shown for his whipping boy’s family had begun their problems; the Queen-to-be’s gently, icy observations about Cain’s crassness, and where it must have come from―seeing how well-mannered and refined _Charles_ was―had continued them.

If King Erik was going to make such efforts to signal his disapproval, most of the Court knew on which side their bread was buttered.

Any hopes Kurt might have held for advancement had long since faded; any hopes Cain might have had of harming Charles were—well, not fading, because Cain hated giving up on anything he enjoyed doing; but his attempts to harm Charles had become remarkably ineffective, surrounded as Charles was by people—by friends—who seemed to just _itch_ for the chance to protect him.

Cain had asked for lessons in arms from Swordmaster Logan.

Possibly Cain had been hoping to get closer to Erik, or get at Charles at the same time, or just hoping to take for himeslf something his step-brother enjoyed; Charles wasn’t sure. It didn’t really matter, given what had resulted from that simple request.

Logan had not refused Cain. Had, indeed, offered to teach him privately, which was unusual enough for people to comment on the matter. Cain had been delighted. Charles had been a little surprised, until the second lesson the Swordmaster taught Cain had sent the older boy in search of a physician.

Specifically, Dr Hank McCoy.

Charles is absolutely sure that neither of his favourite adults (it’s a short list; Queen Edie is also on it) would ever disrespect their separate crafts to the point of actually _harming_ a pupil or a patient, so he can’t be certain, but he’s still sure that Cain’s broken arm, and subsequent confinement to bed rest and a gruel diet is due to them _somehow._

Lord Shaw was still staring at him. Charles blinked himself back from his musings.

“Sir?” Hastily he checked, but no, he hadn’t put his hands in his pockets, or belched, or-or anything.

“As I said, due to this, ah, mismanagement, your lands –and his own—are in poor shape. Acting as your guardian in the king’s place—” Lord Shaw gave Charles a grave look—“I shall appoint a new steward to your lands; hopefully he can bring the books back into better standing so you may come to inherit more than debts.”

“Thank you, sir,” Charles said. The manor in Westchester did not really mean anything to him, other than a place of painful memories, but it was nice to hear it would be looked after.

“Do you have anyone in mind that might be fit for the job?” Charles blinked at the question. Why would-?

“I’m sure you know best,” he said firmly. “I trust your judgment, sir.” Charles was sure the Lord Regent was a clever man as well as a powerful one; and he was also sure that it would be a good idea for him to know Charles knew that, too.

The Lord Regent gave Charles a steady look, before he continued speaking.

“Due to this, and—other matters—I have been forced to request that His Majesty expel the pair of them from his Court and also strip his lands from Lord Marko.” The Lord Regent said, patiently. “As well as yours.”

“You—he—they have to _leave?_ ” Charles blurted. “Westchester and—”

“And the Court, yes. As a courtesy.”

“How is that courteous?” Charles said, adding, hastily “Sir?” The idea of the Markos—landless, penniless—was strangely unappealing.

“Expelling a man is not exiling him.” The Lord Regent leaned forwards. “It’s less wasteful.”

“He—they can’t stay at the Court, and they can’t go home,” Charles thought aloud.

“Just so.” The Lord Regent looked quite pleased about something.

A sudden thought struck Charles “What’s—how are they going to live? They—they’d make _terrible_ peddlers.” He tried not to grin. Wishing misfortune on other people was –bad. Even on horrible people.

“I’m sure they’ll cope.” The Lord Regent leaned back.

“If they can’t be at Court, or leave the country,” Charles guessed. “What if they complain to other nobles? Even if they can’t get to other nations, they can complain here. Or tell them things about—anything?” 

“Oh.” Lord Shaw leaned back in his chair a little more. “I think they’re sensible enough not to do that kind of thing.” He smiled. “I have spoken to Kurt about the matter.”

“Did he- did he listen, sir?”

“You are a clever boy.” The Lord Regent’s eyes narrowed as he glanced sharply at Charles. Charles shrugged, uncomfortable. “I do hope,” Lord Shaw said softly, “that you continue to apply your intelligence to such matters as a fit for your years and station in life, and not to any, ah, unprofitable speculation.”

Charles blinked, his thoughts racing.

“My intelligence,” he finally said, equally softly, “like my loyalty, and—and the rest of me—is always going to be at Erik’s service.”

“As your King.”

“And as my friend,” Charles said.

“Commendable,” the Lord Regent told him, dryly. “If predictable.”

“My friend,” Charles said again. He smiled. He liked the sound of it. “But I’m not—I don’t think Erik—His Majesty—is really predictable, much.”

The Lord Regent sighed, as if he was suddenly very tired.

“So I am coming to learn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this story. I hope you enjoyed it.  
> There may well be a sequel, set about five-six years from now, in which Emma has to put up with a great deal of pining and yearning as Charles and Erik realise the nature of their love for each other (and for her) and Princess Raven arrives to be fostered (and Az falls for her, (and for Janos) and everyone is very foolish indeed until Emma manages to explain it all. But the next story I am writing is one simply called "Golddigger Erik" in my files, and the next WIP I'll work on when that's done will be Dead Man Walking.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [She never thought...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7796086) by [Waterfall_Creek97](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waterfall_Creek97/pseuds/Waterfall_Creek97)




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